


The House of Pretty, Broken Things

by Little_Red92



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Archie Andrews, Demisexual Jughead Jones, Horror, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jughead Jones Needs a Hug, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Slight Canon Divergence, Supernatural Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-01-21 20:05:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 83,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12464916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Red92/pseuds/Little_Red92
Summary: Jughead Jones's life changes forever in late Autumn. After being taken, tortured and left for dead by a masked man Jughead's life -which isn't perfect, to begin with- is turned upside down. Struggling to recover Jug starts seeing things that should not be there and hearing sounds that come from nowhere. At first, he tries to convince himself that it's just PSTD, he didn't really see Jason Blossom standing in the rain, but as the strange things intensify he starts to question his sanity. Are the nightmares about an old abandoned house real? Are ghost stalking him in the waking world or is he losing his damn mind? He doesn't know which answer is more terrifying and all the noise, nightmares and hallucinations are making him want to scream.





	1. A Little Loss of Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my Halloween fic, this is my first attempt at horror, so I hope I'm doing it justice. It's my favourite genre, after all. This story was heavily inspired by Nova Ren Suma's novel Seventeen and Gone and Silent Hill.
> 
> This story takes place in season one of Riverdale. Jughead and Archie went away on their road trip together and are in a relationship. Miss Grundy didn't happen. Jason's body has not been found, so he is still presumed missing.

There’s an uneasy feeling stirring awake in Jughead’s stomach the moment he walks away from Archie, lips still warm and tasting of their kiss. He puts it down to the double feature they saw just at the old theatre; back to back Silent Hill will give anyone the chills. He quickens his pace nevertheless, feeling as though there are eyes watching from the shadows, the sound of leaves crunching beneath his booted feet are alerting something to his presence. A gust of icy wind rushes down the street; wind chimes sing an eerie melody, there is a shift in the night, the moon is lost behind thick silver clouds.

Jughead stops, looking up at the sky, trembling, body sensing a storm coming. The sky cracks open, icy rain falling like tears to the ground. The weather didn’t say anything about a storm, the forecast for the weekend had been bright, sunny days for the people of Riverdale. Archie had wanted to go fishing at Sweetwater River, even though it’s too cold for fishing. He'd just wanted something to do; Jughead knew that feeling all too well. There were lots of things he wanted to distract himself from, like the fact he didn't have a home, a safe place to sleep at night, a family who cared.

He is out here alone in the world, walking the streets in the middle of the night, drenched and freezing. He should have taken Archie's offer to stay the night; he has no idea Jughead has been living in the school supply closet. He knows he should tell him, Archie would offer up his home in a heartbeat, give him a comfy bed to sleep in, a place to feel safe, but dating Archie was still so new, and he didn't want to fuck it up. Archie was the only good thing he had in his life right now; he didn't want to lose him by being a burden.

He’d figure this out, he always did. Pulling up his hood he marches forward; the pavement is slippery with wet leaves; the wind chilling to the bone. He wished his father had been free tonight, that he jumped at the chance to spend time with his son, instead he said he was busy, told him he’d have to find another way home. Jughead was going to crash at the trailer tonight, it’s freezing in the school and he thought one night couldn’t hurt and while he was there he could back another blanket. He wished for once his dad would be there for him, but he wasn’t and Jughead honestly wasn’t surprised, it still hurt though

Bowing his head, he stuffs his hands deep into his pocket and braces himself against the frigid night air. It’s not far to the school, only another block, he’ll be fine. Except the sense of unease has returned, it feels like eyes on the back of his neck, a shadow looming over his trembling wet frame. He shivers, eyes frantically searching the dimly lit street for the source of his fear. Darkness has been swirling through Riverdale, there is something sinister and dangerous unfolding; Jughead wants to get to the heart of it. He wants to uncover the wolves in sheep's clothing, he wants to discover the twisted, sticky-sweet secrets this very town was built on.

There has always been a sense of malevolence in Riverdale; it's something Jughead has always felt, like a whisper against his skins or a pair of eyes on the back of his head. He could see it even when everyone else only saw wholesome all-American families and their white picket fences. Jughead had never left Riverdale, the furthest he has ever gone is the border, which he and Archie used to straddle, laughing, saying ‘look we’re in two places at once.’ That was when they thirteen before their friendship caught fire and they found straddling each other was better than straddling a Stateline.

Maybe he only imagines Riverdale as a place of shadows and secrets because he doesn’t fit in. He is not like the other shiny, preppy teens with their stay at home mums who bake pies and their dads who worked hard and played golf on the weekend. He doesn’t belong to one of the respectable golden families, he is the kid from the wrong side of the tracks, the kid whose dad was an alcoholic and the leader of the local gang and his mother left town without saying goodbye, taking his sister with her.

Maybe he is the darkness.

Bright lights momentary blind him, he tries to blink the spots from his eyes as a car rumbles to a stop, door swinging open, a dark, shapeless figure to emerges into the night. A voice whispers run, flee, and Jughead listens, runs, legs unsteady and shoes skidding and sliding on the wet, leave strewn pavement. The stranger gives chase; he is fast, a hunter hungry for the kill. All he can think is run, run back to town, run to Archie. The wet ground is unforgiving, he slips, toppling over before he can right his feet. Every bone in his body shakes with the force of hitting the concrete, he panics, tries desperately to get leverage on the ground, to get up, to run, run, run.

If only he could have made his body move faster. If only he didn't walk home alone. His body doesn’t rise, legs don’t carry him back to town, to Archie who would have offered him safety and a hot chocolate to warm chase the cold from his bones. The cold that makes him sluggish, he is frozen to the core. The stranger is upon him; he’s strong, grip like iron, Jughead doesn’t even get a chance to defend himself, to shatter the night with a scream.

There is a hand over his mouth and something sharp sinking into the delicate flesh of his neck. His vision tunnels, limbs weakening, body turning numb. Inside he is screaming, caged within the fear and the drug burning through his veins. He is a terrified boy begging to be heard. He doesn't understand. There is no sense to this, he's chasing thoughts, and reasons like Alice chased the white rabbit down the rabbit hole, but all he finds is madness. The world tilts and wilts, time is just an illusion, there is no up or down, no left or right, just a swirling mess of colour.

This can’t be happening. Let this be a dream, let this be a trick of his mind, a grand illusion. Only this is not a dream, this is cold, bitter reality and there is a drug tearing through his bloodstream, rendering him useless. _There is no escape_. No air left in his lungs. He’s choking, gasping for oxygen. He doesn’t know where he is anymore, can’t feel the world around him. It could all end; he could be dying, choking on the poison in his veins. He’s slipping into the darkness, drowning in panic, it feels like dying.

It hurts.

_It’s terrifying._

It's over; his life ends here. In the morning someone will find his body in a ditch, or maybe they will never find him, and everyone will think he ran away. Archie won't. He'll tear this town apart; he'll never stop looking for him. In time, Riverdale will forget him; he'll be another teen that wandered off into the night and never returned. This is how his story ends, in tragedy and blood, he shouldn’t be surprised. Kids like him always end up disappearing, vanishing into the night like ghosts, leaving no trace behind.

His fate has been sealed; there is no breaking free, no running very, very far away. This is going to happen to him, and he can’t do anything about it. There is no freeing himself from the hands that bind, from the drug paralysing him. _This is it_ he thinks, a silent tear that is lost in the rain rolls down his cheek _I’m going to die._

Darkness takes him, leaving him to suffer a fate most cruel.

***

The world keeps flickering in out of focus. There is a window with ripped, sheer curtains that flap in an icy breeze; beyond the window is a glaring blood-red neon sign. Darkness swirls in, pierced by the foggy image of a mildew spotted ceiling with a rusty, cobweb riddled fan that is missing a blade. Jughead wonders if it’s possible to will a drug out of your system. Can he hope and hope and pray that with each exhale of breath it will leave his lungs? He can hope, he can pray and imagine it leaving his body in wispy black strains of smoke, dissipating into the frigid air and granting him strength to fight, _to run_. It’s just a fantasy, a desperate wish, the drug has settled heavy in his bloodstream, holding him deep down in the darkness.

Every now and then though he floats to the surface, feels the frigid air against his exposed flesh, a sharp jolt of pain bursts behind his eyes and for a second, a flutter of a heartbeat, the world comes back into screaming colour. It’s only the briefest of moments, and yet it feels like an eternity, a terrifying eternity of panic, _of pain_. Then he’s sinking again; the darkness is comforting, _safe,_ he wishes he could stay here, hide away until the shadowy figure looming over him has vanished.

The darkness ebbs and flows like an ocean tide, showing him glimpses of the cruel things being done to him. There is a glint of silver, a flash of crimson, sharp and stinging sensations ripple through his body. The pain reaches through the drug; he doesn't understand it at first, it seems to be everywhere all at once, building and building until a pitiful cry climbs up his throat, ready to be set free into the night only to be caged. A sense of awareness washes over him; it could have lasted only minutes or maybe it was hours, it doesn't matter, it's enough space of time to see, _to feel a_ nd identify what is happening to his body.

There is something cold and hard pressing into his bare back; there is no memory of being stripped; there is just a hollowed-out space where the blackness stretched on. The cold metal table bites at his bare skin, the cold air surrounds him, making him shiver. Something warm trickles down his chest, it leaks from his collar bone all the way to his sternum. In the dim light the liquid escaping his flesh looks black, he knows it should be red, the thought has bile rising in his throat. He wants to scream, to kick, to lash out, get out. There is no escape; the drug has made him heavy, disorientated. His hands are strapped to the smooth surface, legs bound too, and something is keeping the screams, the pleas from breaking free.

 He wants the darkness to take him again.

Please, _please._

Clarity stays. He should close his eyes, tear his gaze away; do anything other than just lie here and watch the distorted outline of a stranger slice into him like he is a piece of meat. He has to try; he should be fighting tooth and nail to get this perverted man away from him. He'll fight, he'll rattle the cage in his mind, he'll find an escape; a secret passageway that'll lead him out of this wicked night. He struggles against the binds, groaning as they constrict against his wrists and ankles.

It works, the sensation is gone. It's not complete freedom but its better; it's a start. He'll keep struggling, keep resisting the drug and maybe, _just maybe_ hope will find its way into this dilapidated room. It’ll fill every corner, chase away the dark, surround him, carry him far, far from here. Hope is a fragile thing; it can be crushed so easily, taken away as soon as it is given. It was foolish to hope, to believe that a moment of pathetic struggling would end this terrible night.

A white plastic face looms over him; he can see the smirk in the glint of the stranger's eyes. He tries to open his mouth to scream, to beg, but there is a sharp tugging sensation and the cry, the pleads remain held behind closed lips. Lips that can’t open, even though he is trying, feeling panic come alive as reality bleeds in, crystal clear and devastating. He is bound to a table, in some abandoned place with a stranger who holds a sharp knife that is dripping with blood, _his blood_ and he can’t scream. He can’t beg or plead because his lips feel like they are sewn shut.

He is the sacrificial lamb, the goat for the slaughter, the ‘virgin’ offered up to the Gods. Only he isn’t virgin, and there are no Gods here, not in this cold, dark, lonely place. There is just a man who has surrendered to the darkness within his heart and a terrified boy who was stolen in the night. Time stretches on for years, _for centuries_ ; there is nothing but pain, tears, broken, ragged sobs that are muffled behind stitched lips. His body is trembling, cold, sweat-soaked and glistening crimson. He wants the pain to stop. He wants to shower, to peel away his flesh, find someone new and untouched beneath the ruins.

There is no washing this away. There is blood staining his skin, a blade slicing into delicate flesh, a monster wielding it. This is not a dream. This is reality, and the reality is he is being tortured in some Godforsaken place that will most likely be the last thing he ever sees. A guttural scream shreds his throat, it reverberates in his head, rattling his bones. He cries. Breathing hurts, the oxygen in his lungs is gasoline, and the fear in his veins is the fire racing towards it, ready to ignite.

The clarity is alive; it’s filling his head, his mouth, his ears. It’s the blood glistening on his skin, the ash in his mouth and the salty tears making tracks down his face. He’s in a cold, dark room, far from home and this monster is going to kill him. It could be anyone. It could be a stranger. It could be someone he has walked by a dozen times. It could be someone who’d talked to him, who’d known him for years. Whoever this person is, they are lowering the blade, taking a deep breath that sounds like a tired sigh.

The tears are still falling, body trembling, muffled sobs filling the space between them. Is it over? Will he kill him now? Will it all end here? Is there a chance for an escape, a flicker of hope, a spark of energy to grasp hold of? Maybe he will let him go; he didn't see his face, it's so dark, the only sources of light are from the red neon light seeping in through the window and the fluorescent white of a lamp which he can't glimpse. He wants to beg, to beseech, please, let him go, he won't tell a soul, he'll do anything to make it to morning light.

But the pain doesn't end. The monster does not speak. He is gone from sight, perhaps he has grown tired, or maybe he's going to find another method to torture him with or perhaps he has left Jughead to die alone in the eerily lit room. He doesn't want to die here alone. He wants to go home, not the school supply closet or the Twilight drive or the rusty old trailer, his real home. The one filled with memories and a treehouse in the back garden where he used to play for hours and hours with Archie. He wants the pain to end. He wants to be under the bright neon lights of Pop’s, with its false sense of safety and home, kissing the boy he cherishes.

He’s not going to get any of these things; there is no winding back the hands of time or unravelling the fabric of the universe. This is happening. Things like _this_ do happen to people like him. The lonely and the lost are taken, stolen away in the late hours of the night; they are used and abused in back alleyways and abandoned building. That’s just how it happens. Perhaps this was always going to be his fate, to be broken, violated and killed in a dirty room where no one will find his body.

The glittery, shiny people don’t get snatched away in the night; they don’t have their flesh slashed by a monster. They are the ones with bright futures, with a promise of success, freedom from small backwards towns that hold, that _cage_ the fragile, broken hearts. Jughead is the background character, there to be seen and not heard. The bright, happy stories circle around him, teasing him with all the golden things he’ll never have.

He is the kid who disappears one day. He is the kid who is taken apart, unravelled and ruined in the dead of night. This is the role he’s been given, the part in which he must play so Betty, Veronica and Archie can thrive in the light. He was sacrificed to the darkness, to the hungry, deviant beasts that dwell within it. These thoughts leave him hopeless, _lost_. Pain and fear fade to numbness. It's better than the agonising pain, the maddening fear. He'll let it overtake him; he'll hold onto it tight, desperate for it to surround him, to _protect_ him from whatever horror and misery the night has yet to deliver.

**~X~X~X~**

Archie wakes with a start, body full of fear; something doesn't feel right. Ever since he and Jughead started dating in the summer, he's been waking with joy in his heart, a song in his chest. Now there is a lead weight in his stomach, a head full of memories of the nightmare that pulled him from sleep. He’d been running through Riverdale, the town coated in a thick layer of smoke and the streets streaked with ash, monsters he could not see chasing after him. He couldn't find Jughead; he knew he had to find him or else he'd be trapped in this hellish world with its endless horrors forever. Perhaps it's just the nightmare that has given him this sense of dread; that has him peering out the window in search of watching eyes.

There is nothing watching, just the branches swaying in the wind, dripping wet from the downpour. Outside the world has become a wet and bleak place; there is no sun cresting on the horizon, only a sky laden with sombre grey clouds. Archie gets out of bed, throwing on a few layers to fight back the chill before descending downstairs, hoping the uneasy feeling will stay behind in the dark corners of his room. It doesn't budge; it grows with every step, builds a home in his chest until he can't breathe, can't feel anything other than the urgency to head out into the dismal day and find Jughead.

He’s being stupid; he tries to reason with himself, Jug is fine. Right? He didn't text last night, and he always texts Archie before bed. They talk every night, about nothing and everything but last night Archie’s phone remained silent. The feeling of dread is alive, burning and violent, it's a beast inside his chest, making him race upstairs to where he left his cell phone. It's five in the morning, there are no messages from Jughead, and when Archie rings, he doesn't pick up. He doesn't care about reason now. Doesn't care that it’s crazy to be panicking this quickly, but there is a voice telling him something is wrong, very wrong and there is an invisible tether tugging him from his house.

He follows it blindly. Follows the twist in his gut, the pull of an unforeseen force all the way into town, past the movie theatre, through the quaint neighbourhoods and out onto the open stretch of highway that leads to the run-down motel. It’s strange, after all this time the sign still works. It illuminates the dawn with blood-red block lights spelling motel; under it, the no vacancy has died out. He should question why he is out here, should stop to take a deep breath then he'd realise he stole his dad's car without permission and drove without a licence to a closed down motel all on a feeling.

A sense of danger sits heavy in the air; it settles on his skin in a cold dampness. It seeps into his bones, making them heavy and ache like he hasn’t stretched in a week. As he draws closer, a strange clarity settles over him. There is no doubt in his mind that what lies behind the door of room six will be devastating. Everything is about to change; life has started to unravel while he slept, dreamt of a place full of monsters and terror. His nightmare has followed him into the waking world, crept out of the big screen, slithering out into the dark theatre, chasing them home. Darkness stole away into his life while he kissed Jug under the glistening stars. It's here at his fingertips; it's alive and poisonous behind the closed door.

It swings open on shrieking hinges; it sounds like someone crying in agony. Feet carry him forward on their own accord, he crosses the threshold, straight into the heart of darkness. The clarity, the strange sense of calmness shatters, landing like shards of glass at his feet. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move. This has to be a dream, please God he has to be dreaming. This isn’t real; this is his mind playing tricks, it’s a just an illusion, another messed up nightmare.

He blinks, pinches himself, this is not a dream.

This is real.

Reality knocks him to the floor, the carpet is damp and torn beneath his knees, the air smells of copper, mothballs and fear. He gags, choking on the bile rising in his throat. There would have been no preparing him for the sight, for the bloody mess that has become his boyfriend’s body. He wants to look away, close his eyes and find himself back home, safe and warm in bed, Jughead sleeping soundly beside him. The gruesome image does not vanish; there is no forgetting this, no escaping the horror that is laid out before him.

There is so much blood, its matted in the carpet; it’s drying on the walls, it’s deep and violent against Jughead’s pale flesh. Jughead… his best friend, his first love is strapped face down on a table, his exposed back a mess of crimson streaks. His best friend is bleeding out in a decaying motel room and Archie can’t fucking move. Pale blue eyes flutter open; they are unfocused, full of pain and tears. Archie snaps to attention, freed by the weak moan that pierces the quiet morning air.

Spell broken he rushes to Jug’s side, freeing him from his bonds with trembling fingers. He tears off his jacket and settles it over Jughead’s naked body, wincing as he flinches at the touch. He doesn't know what to do; he’s too panicked to think straight. Jughead is shivering, weeping. He kneels next to him, oh so carefully, brushing the tangled web of dark locks from his face. Jughead moans low in his throat, Archie’s heart breaks.

“Juggie” he breathes, there is nothing else he can say. He should at least move them to the car; get them out of this foul-smelling motel room with its bloodstained floors. “Juggie, can you say something?” He needs him to speak, to say something, _anything_ because Archie is frozen in fear. He can't think, can't see past the blood and tortured gaze staring right through him. Jughead doesn't speak; he can't, Archie realises, someone has sewn his mouth shut. 

The sight is horrendous, makes Archie recoil, the force has him falling backwards with a thud that rattles every bone. He wants to be sick, can taste the bile in the back of his throat but he swallows it down, along with the fear, the panic. He has to help Jughead; he needs to get up and call an ambulance or find something to cut the threads sealing his boyfriend's mouth shut. His hands tremble uncontrollably as he dials 911, the words come out in a rush of hysteria, he is shaking violently, choking on sobs.

Help is coming. He can't stop crying, and Jughead's pale eyes flutter shut. For one terrifying moment he thought Jughead was going to die. A weak breath would escape around the threads holding his blue tinted lips shut, and he’d go still. Never to smile, to laugh, to live again. He didn’t die, he drew in a feeble breath, and a single tear trickled down his face. Archie knew he could die, that there was too much blood staining his skin. For the next few moments, he has to hold back the tears, the bile and take care of Juggie. He has to be the one in control. Later, later he can break. Can shatter.

Shakily he makes his way back to Jug’s side, tentatively taking hold of his hand, his skin is like ice. He starts talking, the words are nonsense, are rambled, panicked sentences, but he needs to break the silence, needs to tether Jug to this world. _To him_. He speaks until his throat is dry and tongue heavy in his mouth. He does what he can to sooth Jughead, brushing quivering fingers through his tangled curls. Jughead keeps breathing, barely, skin growing colder by the second or maybe it’s just Archie who is turning to ice. He doesn’t stop talking, even though Jughead is probably too lost to hear him, even though his hearing aid is slightly askew, and he might not be able to hear a thing.

Archie absently fixes it; Jug makes no sound, just breathes, shakes. Archie hears sirens; he starts to break, tears gathering in his eyes as the room is cast in the flashing blue and red lights. Every inch of him feels heavy; it feels like he has been flayed, heart ripped from his chest. He feels a thousand miles from the boy who kissed his best friend under the glittering night sky. The night is lost, _innocence is lost_ , stolen away in the dead of night. As the paramedic’s rush into the room, a thousand questions coming his way, all he can think as he steps aside to let them save Jughead’s life is we’ll never be those boys again.

**~X~X~X~**

There isn’t enough air. There is too much noise. People keep asking him questions he doesn’t have the answers to. He is falling, _coming undone._ The world has become a strange place; he doesn't understand it anymore, can't find up or down. It feels like he might be going mad, the voices are close, strong hands rest on his shoulder, someone is telling him to breathe, to calm down. He can't; he can't breathe, he can't think, _can't breathe_. He needs the probing questions to stop; he doesn't know what happened to Jughead. He doesn’t have the answers they want, that they are demanding.

He's in a small room with too many people, and they are chasing answers he doesn't have. He can't think straight; there are still red and blue lights flashing in his eyes, images of Jughead's blood-covered body flickering in his mind. He keeps seeing the ugly black threads that had been used to sew Jug's mouth shut. This isn’t how their life is meant to be. He and Jughead should be at home playing video games or sitting in a booth at Pop’s, eating pancakes loaded with maple syrup. Now the world is sharp and jagged and wrong.

He wants this to stop, for time to rewind, take them back to last night, where they were under the glittering night sky. He'll hold on to Jug's hand; he won't let go, they'll go to Pop’s. Archie will kiss him again, for all to see. There is no time machine or wish or spell to take them back; there is just this nightmare they have been given. Everything came apart so quickly, everything he thought he knew was destroyed in the space of one night.

He wants to be at Jughead's side, but he was whisked away in a sea of blue and white. He is out of reach. Archie hopes he isn’t scared, that they are helping him, that they can save him. The tears come like a storm without warning. He collapses into his father’s arms and cries like he hasn’t cried in years; the weight of what has happened hitting him, settling in his bones like a deadly disease. Jughead could have died in that God forsaken motel room.

Someone tortured Jughead then left him to die.

It was a devastating reality to grasp, to be thrown into. This kind of stuff didn’t happen in Riverdale, it happened in big cities, to people he didn’t know, would never know. Had the murder of Jason Blossom opened a kind of darkness that couldn't be contained? Would it spread and fester until this town came down in ruins? Archie doesn't care what happens to this town anymore; it can burn to the ground for all he cares; it's no longer the wholesome, safe place it was.

It was unfamiliar, tainted by blood and the broken cries of the boy it took apart. Would there be somewhere safe for them, a place where the darkness and the madness couldn’t reach? He can only hope. Not that it matters, they can’t get to that possible imaginary safe place, not right now. Right now, he is stuck in a small-town hospital, with a bunch of adults wanting answers and a best friend fighting for his life. There is nothing he can do but speak of the horrors he saw.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said for what feels like the hundredth time, voice hoarse and unsteady.

“Okay, son” Fred’s grip softens, he leans back a little to give him some space. Archie didn’t even notice him kneeling before him, “Can you tell me what you do know? It’s really important Arch.”

“When I woke up” he averts his gaze, staring down at his mismatched sneakers, he'd put them on in such a hurry that the laces are messy, tangled knots and one is blue while the other is red. Like the lights, like Jug's skin. “When I woke up this morning I had this feeling something wasn’t right. I can't explain it… I just knew something was wrong.” He lifts his gaze, finding strength in his father's gaze. “I tried calling Juggie, but he didn't pick up. I hadn't heard from him since we left the movies last night and that wasn’t like him. I started to worry and… this is going to sound crazy, but it's like an outside force told me he was in danger, so I followed whatever it was to the motel.”

Fred doesn’t bat an eye, Archie is sure he sounds crazy, people don’t just wake up in the morning then disappear out the front door in search of their boyfriends. His father moves closer, taking Archie’s hand into his own, it’s warm and calloused. “Did you notice anyone at the movies watching you? See anyone follow Jug as he left?”

“No” Archie saw nothing but the stars in his eyes, felt nothing but the song in his heart and butterflies in his belly. He lowers his head in shame, terrified that he missed the monster lurking in the shadows. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see anything.”

“It’s not your fault, Arch” he reassures, gently encouraging him to meet his gaze by cupping his chin in the crook of his fingers. “We’ll find who did this.”

“What if they don't,” he asked, voice small and broken. “What if he comes back for Jug? What if he’s not safe.” He’s teetering on hysteria, gasping in shallow breaths, choking on the ugly sobs building in his throat.

“Hey, shh” Fred pulled him into his arms, Archie shatters, crying for all that has been lost. “Jughead is safe now; you are safe, now. I won't let anything bad happen, okay? You are both safe.”

Archie nodded, words trapped by the heavy sobs. He clung to his father like a lifeline, falling to ruins in his arms, letting every emotion ripple through his body until he couldn’t feel or cry anymore. Archie stopped weeping. A knock at the door made them startle, Fred got up to answer it, a small, young woman in blue scrubs and a white coat stepped; finally, someone who could tell them what was happening with Jughead.

She introduced herself as Doctor Hadley before asking Fred to take a seat; he chooses to stand at Archie’s side, once more resting a grounding hand on his shoulder. Archie didn’t understand a lot of what was being said, but he understands infection, blood loss and stitches. He feels sick, faint; his dad must sense something because he squeezes his shoulder in reassurance. She is calm as she speaks, Archie doesn’t know how she can be when talking about something so horrific. She tells them of the injuries inflicted on Jughead with a steady voice, Archie feels anything but steady.

Someone, no a _monster_ , repeatedly carved into Jughead's body, the worst of the injuries being the ‘wings’ sliced into the delicate flesh of his back. Archie could tell someone exactly how many moles Juggie has on his back. Archie has memorised the pattern of them, has spent countless hours tracing them and making constellations with his fingertips. Archie remembers the bloody mess that had become Jughead's back; there would be no more mapping constellations. The world is spinning out of his grasp again; her voice sounds like it's drifting down to him from above water, his father's touch is no longer comforting; it's a dead weight. 

“Can we see him?” The words leave Archie’s mouth without warning, he’s had enough of hearing the horrific details. He needs to see Jughead. “Please?”

“Of course,” she nods, tucks the folder she was reading from under her arm and moves towards the door.

Numbly he walks from the room, following in their footsteps like a ghost. Archie doesn’t see the doctors, nurses and patients that linger about the hospital; he only sees the white of Doctor Hadley's coat. The world drops away; there are no walls, no sky or trees or billions of souls, it's just him and the white blur leading him into the dark. When they make it to Jug's room he walks right in, doesn't wait for permission or to hear any more God-awful details, he walks in knowing full well it won't be as bad as what he walked into this morning.

It's still awful, though. It takes the air from his lungs and makes his knees buckle, palms go sweaty, and bile rises in the back of his throat. Jughead is lying motionless on his side under a layer of blankets, skin ghostly pale. He looks impossibly small and vulnerable with all the wires and machines surrounding him. Archie sits down next to him, numb, legs unable to stand a moment longer. He takes Jughead's IV free hand into his own; it's as cold as ice. He closes his fingers around it, willing his warmth into his body.

Jughead doesn't stir; he's asleep or unconscious. It's probably for the best; his body and mind need to rest. Fred appears at Archie’s side, warm, hard-working hand resting upon his shoulder, he looks down at Jug with glistening eyes. He sighs, turns towards the Doctor who is checking Jug's vitals and asks if anyone's gotten hold of Jughead's parents. She tells them she has spoken to Jughead's mother and she had given her permission to share the medical information with them; she said she’d try to arrange travel to town. FP hasn’t been reached.

Fred nods, scrubs a hand through his beard and tells Doctor Hadley to keep trying. When she leaves, Fred sits down next to Archie, who can't tear his eyes away from his broken friend. “Did you know Jug’s mum wasn’t in town?”

“He told me she’d left a few months ago with Jellybean” Archie revealed, thinking back to how sad Jughead had looked when he told him, remembering how he tried so hard to act like he was fine.

He didn’t say anything else on the subject; Archie knew when to push and pull so he let Jughead stay silent. He’d mostly forgotten about the conversation; they had been on their road trip at the time and not a day later they were kissing on a hill under a setting sun. That was the beginning of them becoming more than friends, on that hot summer’s day they admitted hidden truths and embraced a new journey together. When they returned to Riverdale they were together, they went on dates and snuck out late in the night to make out, to make love.

Summer was long gone, autumn arrived with its wild winds and crisp days that turned into bitterly cold nights. Summer was gone, and the boys who embarked on a road trip, who became something more than friends along the way were lost. What is left Archie does not recognise, he feels small and fragile. Jughead is lying pale and broken before his very eyes, and he doesn’t know how to fix this. Summer is over, the bight days have been swept away in the autumn winds, darkness has arrived in Riverdale, and Archie fears it's here to stay.


	2. A Morning of Reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!!

The world comes back in pieces, snapshots of reality slipping in through terrifying memories. There is no peace to be found, no quiet corner of his mind to hide away in. There is a room too white, too bright; smelling of antiseptic and medicine. There is a room with its fading, peeling wallpaper and dust covered windows, smelling of blood and fear. There is no escape from the hands; there are people touching him in the too bright place and someone cutting him in the dark one.

There is no holding onto one or the other; he is jostled between worlds; never sure which one is real and if any are safe. Wherever the waves take him there is pain, there are hands on his naked body, hurting him. A sea of white blurs and bustles around him, needles disappear into his skin, cameras flash, someone takes notes. Realties blur, merging together to create a terrifying, monstrous world.  He just wants to be safe, to not have people touching him; he wants to know where he is.

He can hear talking, gentle words hidden behind cruel ones, someone says; ‘it’s okay’ just as someone says, ‘I love the look of blood in the moonlight.’ Words overlap and loop, whirling in his mind to create a confusing mess of jumbled senseless syllables. He tries to escape, to recoil from the hands, the pain but they hold him down, they fill him with poison and drown him in the dark. When he next wakes, mind foggy and head heavy, the sea of people and the devious man are gone.

He’s in a small, ordinary hospital room; it smells like coffee with a hint of fries. It takes a few moments to escape the wispy tendrils of whatever medication he was given, but when he can see clearly, he finds Archie sitting next to him. He’s staring blankly up at the TV, a half-eaten packet of chips sitting open on his lap, he looks as wrecked as Jug feels. He should speak, say hi or something, but his tongue is a dead weight in his bone-dry mouth. A mouth that is no longer sewn shut.

His lips feel sore, swollen, he tries to speak, but he can't seem to make a sound, to get his mouth to work. All he wanted to do is scream now he can't find the strength to utter a single syllable. Every inch of him feels foreign, like he's woken up in the wrong body, in a world he no longer recognises. There is a dull sense of fear beating in his chest, masked by the drugs coursing through his veins. When the fog clears from his mind, he imagines it will get worse, the fear growing, rising all around him.

He’ll hold tight to the strange numbness for as long as he can. He wants to float in this blissful limbo for as long he can, because there is sure to be a reckoning when his mind releases him from the safe haven it has plunged him into. It will catch up to him, the walls will crumble, for now his throat is burning, and he is desperate for water. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted something this much in his life. Again, he goes to speak, tongue moving sluggishly in his cotton mouth, lips stinging as he tries to shape words.

He doesn’t have to speak; Archie has noticed that he is awake, those brown eyes flooding with tears and a dozen emotions that he can’t catalogue right now. Archie doesn’t need him to talk; he is helping to lift his head and offering him a straw. The chilled water is heaven on his throat; he'd drain every last drop if Archie didn’t take the cup away, telling him to take it easy. The water sits uncomfortably in his stomach; he feels sick as he lies back down, breathing heavily.

“Juggie” Archie squeezes his hand, skin warm and sweaty. “Juggie…” He sounds like he's going to break down, he looks like his world has been torn apart, eyes grief-stricken and haunted, body sagging under the weight of the world. 

Jughead scarcely remembers Archie bursting into the motel room; he doesn't recall at all when he realised he was being held in the abandoned motel on the outskirts of town. It was the sign that gave away the location; the crimson neon light would forever be seared in his mind. The last thing he remembers is the cold. He was freezing, frozen to the bone, he'd never been that cold, not even on the day his dad forgot to pick him up after school in late autumn.

He waited two hours in the empty school parking lot before deciding to walk to a phone booth where he rang Fred Andrews. He was there in under five minutes, drove him back to his house where Mary made him hot coca and Archie cheered him up by letting him play his new video game. He wanted someone to come along, to bundle him in blankets and take him away from this nightmare. No one busts through the door to save him, dawn rose quiet and bleak, leaving no sign of hope. He believed he’d die here. These would be his last breaths, young blood escaped onto a cracked, dirty floor and an innocent life teetered dangerously between this world and the next. 

He’s giving up, giving in. Eyelids fluttered shut; the room grew colder, Jughead shivered and struggled to fill his aching lungs with air, _with life_. Perhaps this is where it all ends, in a cobweb riddled, rat-infested room. This is where the clock winds down, and the ink dries on the page. Maybe one day some rowdy teenagers will sneak in, lured by the tale of the grisly murder and they will spin lies of how he died, of who he was. Jughead watch from the shadows, a ghost, an echo of the boy he once was. 

He won’t make a sound. He’ll appear out of the darkness, bloody and lips sewn shut. Everyone will run screaming, but he'll forever be silent. Scream trapped like fire in his throat. He'll die here, and here he'll remain. He didn’t die in that God-forsaken motel room; salvation arrived in the form of Archie, his best friend, _his everything_. Archie appeared out of nowhere, just as Jug was about to let go, he could see the other side beaconing him forwards, promising safety and freedom from the pain. Archie pulled him back.

Archie saved his life.

Archie saved his life because someone spent the night torturing him without mercy, they were going to kill him. _Someone tried to kill him_. Reality settles heavy in his bones, mind sharpening with pain, with the pull of bandages and stitches he has yet to see. Jughead doesn't want to imagine what his body must look like; he can still feel the blade slicing into him, can still hear the sound of skin tearing like silk. The pain didn't stop; the blood flowed endlessly. A stranger took great care and precision to leave his mark, using Jughead's flesh as a canvas to create the world's most gruesome painting.

Memories flicker in his mind, pain awakening in his bones, the urge to scream rising. He doesn't scream; instead, he grips Archie's hand, feeling a single tear trace a path down his cheek. Archie brushes it away with the softest kiss; Jughead expels the desire to scream in a shaky breath. Tired eyes flutter shut; he's never felt this tired before, never felt so strange and scared in his own skin. It makes him want to cry, to remove his ruined flesh and find a shiny, new body to inhabit, one that is not marred with a mad man's work of art.

There will be no wishing or praying this away; the marks are here to stay, the memories are here to live on forever. The tears come without warning; ugly heavy sobs finally escape past swollen lips, broken, guttural screams shred his throat. He shatters, falls to ruins in Archie's arms. He screams in agony, it hurts like hell, rises up his throat like fire and echoes in the room, sounding inhuman to his ears. He doesn’t feel right, feels distorted, shaped and carved into something else, something not quite right.

His wail brings attention, nurses bustle around him, Archie tries to hold him, but they force him to move back, and Jughead's hand is cold and empty without his to hold. He screams again, it rattles every bone in his body, reverberates in his head. Everything about it sounds wrong; it's shrill and thunderous, seems to echo and pulsate in the air around him. The window rattles; the nurses wince at the sound, hands flying up to cover their ears. Archie stumbles backwards, a look of pure horror on his face.

Darkness starts to rush in, Jughead stills, body throbbing, flopping back down onto the mattress. He doesn't even remember sitting up. Eyelids growing heavy he surrenders to the darkness, letting the nurses roll him onto his side and tuck him in the way his mother used to when he was young. He feels Archie take his hand again, there is no energy to grasp back, but the weight and warmth is comforting. As the darkness closes in, he begins to wonder when it stole away into his life.

Or had he sought it out, embraced it with his curious nature, allowed it to sink in and embed its claws into his flesh. Was tragedy born in his blood, written in the spaces between his moles. Had this cruel fate always been here, ready, waiting to greet him? Or was this just life, a shuffle of the cards, a short straw pulled and he was chosen to walk this path. It didn’t matter, it had happened, now he was broken and wrong, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to change it.

**~X~X~X~**

Archie never wants to hear Jughead scream like that again. He’s trembling, even though two hours have passed, he can’t get the sound out of his head, can’t shake the feeling that there is something different about Jughead now. Asleep he looks at peace, looks so young and lost and all Archie wants to do is protect him, even though it’s too late. He can’t change what has happened, though he’d do anything to unwrite the events of last night, to erase the scars from Jug’s body. He doesn’t have that kind of power, he can’t fix or change anything, but he can help Juggie recover, he can give him a home, a bed to sleep in, a safe pair of arms to hold him.

When his dad returned with a hunger over FP Archie learnt that Jughead wasn't living at home, hadn't been since the end of summer. Archie was angry at first, he couldn't understand why Jughead wouldn't tell him. But that was typical Jughead, trying to look after himself and not burden anyone else. Archie knew what people said about him, heard them whispering in the halls, calling him names, making sure he felt truly isolated. Jughead was never the kid from the wrong side of tracks to Archie; he was the kid he befriended on the first day of preschool, who stood by him through his parent's divorce and attended every birthday party.

He was the best friend he fell in love with, not someone who was troubled or should be ignored because they were from the wrong side of town. Jughead was stubborn and worn down by this town and its cruelty, he held tight to his secrets and kept his heart locked behind towering walls. Archie was lucky enough to get through, to see the boy no one else could. Guilt follows the rage; he should have noticed, should have paid more attention instead of being blinded by the romance and excitement of everything.

If he noticed, if he stopped and listened then maybe Juggie wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed right now. He would have come home with Archie last night, they would have fallen into bed together, safe and sound and the darkness wouldn’t have found them. It has, it sits heavy in the air, feels like a noose tightening around his neck and with every breath it tightens. The tension is running high, the energy between his dad and FP is prickly, every second he fears they will start shouting again.

Fred had found FP hungover at the trailer, sobered him up and drove him to the hospital to be with Jughead. They had been arguing when they walked in, Archie was worried security would kick them out, but Fred backed off, knowing when to throw in the towel after years of friendship. The room filled with a tense silence, Archie wanted to ask what was going on but he decided to bide his time. It wasn't until Fred took him to get lunch that he told him everything.

Now the three of them are sitting around Jughead, watching him sleep, outside the rain comes down heavy. There is still a sense of unease sitting in Archie's chest; the world seems different now, it's sharp and distorted into something new and evil. Fear is a living, breathing entity hiding in the shadows; it's the coldness in his veins and the nausea in his stomach. He tries to reason with himself, it's shock, this is normal, he hasn’t been ripped from the world and thrown into some hellish dimension where monster lurk in the dark and happiness is a fond memory.

Everything will be okay. Jughead is alive, is right here and when he is discharged he will come live with him and his dad. FP had resisted, swore he could take care of his own son but Fred stood his ground, protected Jug like Archie wished someone had last night. He refused to allow FP to take Jug home, he would live with them and FP would get sober, would do the right thing for once, for Jughead. He bent to Fred's will, Archie had never seen his dad so fierce, and he was grateful. Someone had to look after Juggie, help him recover from this nightmare.

Jughead starts to stir, fighting against the drug in his system. Everyone gathers in close, watching glassy blue eyes flutter open. It takes a moment for Jug to get his bearings, swollen lips moving, uttering a weak hi. Relief flooded Archie’s chest, a crack of light pierced the darkness shrouding him and he smiled, warm, fond and wet with tears. Archie didn't care about their dads being in the room, watching over his shoulder, he lent forward and kissed Jug on the cheek.

“Hey” Archie croaks back, “Glad to see you back in the world of the living.”

“I think it was a little touch and go for a while there” he admitted, voice weak and unsteady. “You saved me? That wasn’t a dream, right?”

“No, it wasn't a dream” Archie replied, biting his lip to hold back the tears. He has the sense Juggie didn't remember what happened earlier; it was probably for the best. He'd push the memory aside, forget he ever heard Jug make such a sound. He was alive; he was breathing and smiling right before his eyes. “I found you” he doesn't feel like he saved Jughead, saving him would entail him arriving before any harm could be done. He found him; he got him help, that was all.

“Archie Andrews,” Jughead says, words sluggish “you saved me” a tired smile lit up his face. “You're always saving me.” Lashes flutter, eyes slip shut as Jughead goes still, soft breaths fill the room.

Archie lets the tears free, exhausted and emotionally wrecked he holds tight to Jughead's hand, allowing the words to settle against his skin, free him from the dark. He can't save Jug from what has happened; he can only stand by his side in the aftermath, lending him strength, giving him a safe embrace to fall apart in. Jug's live still hangs in the balance, there is much healing that needs to be done, and Archie will do anything and everything to save Jughead's life.

**~X~X~X~**

Jughead feels dizzy and disoriented when he wakes again; outside day has turned into night, the rain taps gently on the window, beyond it all he can see is the abyss. Turning away he finds Archie dozing in the chair next to the bed; body slumped at an awkward angle and Jug imagines he's going to have a stiff neck when he wakes. He tries to sit up, but his limbs feel heavy, back twinging with every attempt he makes. He gives in, feeling exhausted from the struggle, Archie stirs awake, brown eyes fluttering open.

“Hey” he smiles, voice deep from sleep. “Have you been awake long?”

“No” it takes a few attempts to get the words out, mouth feeling like its stuffed full of cotton. “Where're our dads?"

“They went to get coffee” Archie replied, chewing on his lip in the way he does when hesitating. “Jug… why didn't you tell me you weren't living at home?"

“I was ashamed” he admitted, lowering his gaze. “We were finally together, everything between us was perfect and I didn’t want you to know how much my life had gone to shit. I didn’t want ruin things, I liked pretending we were just two normal kids in love. I’m sorry, I should have told you” he brushes away a stray tear, biting back the swell of emotion.

“Juggie you can tell me anything" Archie moved into his field of vision, taking his hand, Archie's felt warm and strong and Jug gripped it tight. "Everything's going to be okay now, you're going to move in with me and dad, and we'll take care of you.” His lips whisper against Jughead's hand; it makes Jughead feel safe, makes him believe Archie is right, everything is going to be okay from now on.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden on you, either of you.”

"Jug you are not a burden on me, on anyone" Archie reassured. "I couldn't protect you from what happened last night, so I am sure as hell going to make sure you are safe for now on.”

“Last night wasn’t your fault, Arch” memories surface in the back of his mind, he shudders as images flicker to life, a flash of crimson, a glint of silver, a white mask floating in the dark, red neon lights bouncing off the gleaming plastic. “It wasn’t anyone’s.”

“We’ll find him, Jug” Archie promised, though Jughead knew he could make no such promises.

“How did you find me?” he asked, needing a distraction from the pain creeping to life in his back, in the various wounds scattered over his body.

Archie is about to answer when the door swings open; a middle-aged woman walks in carrying a tray, the smell of food makes Jughead's stomach growl. He hasn't eaten since he and Archie sat in a booth at Pop’s and ate burgers with a side of fries and Jughead drank half of Archie's chocolate milkshake. It seems a life time ago now, the bright lights of Pop's a distant memory, a fantasy from another life, one before the darkness swallowed him.

“It smells good” Archie mused, lifting the lid to reveal a plate of roast beef and veggies.

He helps Jug to sit up, it takes a lot of effort and fiddling with pillows and trying to figure out how the ancient bedhead goes up, but they get there. Archie props him on pillows and brings him in his food like they are some old married couple. Jughead feels warmth chase away the coldness lingering in his bones, Archie smiles at him, he looks so tired, afraid but it doesn't hide the love shining in his amber gaze. If this is the only moment of sweetness he can get before the trauma catches up with him, then he'll take it, hold tight to it and fold it away in a safe place for when he needs it the most.

“Want to give your boyfriend a hand?” He’s too tired to be stubborn, just lifting his arms to grasp the folk has drained him.

"Yeah of course" Archie picks up the utensils, cutting up the food into bite-sized portions.

"You didn't answer me before," Jughead says as Archie offers him a forkful of food. His lips sting and twinge as he opens his mouth, his lips hurt because _someone_ sewed his mouth shut, the thought doesn’t rattle him like it should. Whatever emotions he should be feeling are forced to the background, a storm brewing on the horizon. “How did you find me?”

“I can’t I explain it, Jug” Archie takes a bite of beef, chewing thoughtfully and Jughead waits for him to continue. “When I woke up I had this sense something was wrong, so I rang you, and you didn't answer." He scoops up a heaping of mash potato and peas, Jughead hates peas, but he eats it anyway. “I felt this wave of fear rush me through and I knew without a doubt that you were in danger” he absently takes another mouthful and Jug wonders if he’s eaten today. “I knew I had to look for you, so I left the house, and after that, it's kind of a blur. It was like something was pulling me to where you were.” He lowers his gaze, trying to hide the tears, "Then I found you."

“Then you saved me, Archie.” He has a foggy recollection of an earlier conversation where he told Archie this, but he isn't certain if it was a dream or not. It doesn't matter; he deserves to hear it again. "I would have died if it weren't for you." There is no sense of panic as he says this, his stomach doesn't summersault, nor does his heart skip a beat, he is in a state of falling. When he lands, when the trauma slams into him like a brick wall it's going to be ugly. He's already felt some of the effects, he is grateful for whatever drug has left him unattached for the moment. "We should give you a superhero name? Something like the Pureheart the Power.”

Archie looks up, eyes shimmering, smile warm and tender "I'm so glad I got to you in time, Jug. I don't understand what led me to that motel room, but I don’t care.” A single tear falls, he doesn’t brush it away. “I couldn’t live without you, Jug, I love you.”

“I love you too, Archie” he blinks back his own tears “and don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

Archie feeds Jug the rest of his meal as they exchange small talk until FP and Fred walk in. It's time for Archie to go home, he kisses Jughead goodbye, a soft, chaste kiss on the forehead then he is leaving, the light and safety he brings disappearing with him. His father sleeps beside him that night on a roll out bed, the strange sense of ease vanishes in the dark, getting lost in nightmares that could be memories if only he could remember everything that happened in that abandoned motel room.

When morning comes the lull is over, he has hit the ground, it's painful and ugly, and he has no idea how he is going to get up, to put together the broken bones and severed parts of himself. The following days pass by in a grey blur of pain, questions, rain, fear and nightmares. The days are long, Jughead quickly grows restless being bedridden, finding it too easy to get lost in his mind without Archie by his side to distract him. 

The outside world seems far away from within the confines of his hospital room. He feels different, like something fundamental has been lost, taken by the man in the white mask, the monster who haunts his dreams. He doesn't feel right anymore, there is something powerful and dangerous coming to life beneath his flesh, and he is terrified of what it could be. It sits in his chest, building, reaching up his throat and wanting, begging to escape.

He wants to scream. He wants to open his mouth and let the pain out, let it shatter windows, shake the ground and reach all the way to Thornhill where it will rattle the iron gates. He keeps his mouth shut, silenced by invisible threads. He remembers the last time he screamed, he pretends he doesn't, for everyone's sake. He remembers the way it sounded inhuman, how it pulsated in the air like shock waves from a bomb. There was something very wrong with him; he could sense it, feel it deep down in his core.

Something is happening to him; it's more than post-traumatic stress or side effects from the drugs that are slowly fading from his bloodstream. He is too afraid to tell anyone about the weight in his chest, the coldness in his bones. Archie looks so happy every time he comes to visit, so relieved that he is alive and Jughead isn't going to take the smile off his boyfriend's face. Archie is the only sunshine he has these days. His dad, who sits by his side every day, is guilt-ridden, struggling to stay sober while looking after him and he isn't making it easy. Jughead doesn't want to be smothered or pitied, Betty hovers and fusses over him, Veronica keeps sending flowers flown in from New York and they are too bright and cheery in this sombre room.

Everyone asks questions, questions he has no answers to. Not really. There isn't much to go off; the gruesome night has faded from memory, has been twisted and distorted into shapeless, meaningless dreams that wake him in the dead of night. The bloodied motel room held no clues, not one strand of hair or trace of DNA to be found, only rivers of blood that would never scrub clean from the carpet. Jughead accepts his torturer may never be caught; he gives in to the grief inside his chest and madness in his head.

The week passes by in sorrow, tears, rain, fear and nightmares. Then the sun returns, finds its way through the clouds as it rises the following Friday. The heavy medication evaporates from his bloodstream, and he wakes feeling a little less haunted, a little less broken. The voice whispering in his mind is still present, endlessly reminding him that something is wrong, something is missing. With a mind no longer clouded by drugs, he locks the whispers away, focusing on the fact he is getting out of here, moving in with Archie and Fred while he recovers. He is nervous; he scarcely remembers what it's like to have a home, a bed that’s his own to sleep in at night.

He is cautiously optimistic, mostly because he isn't sure life can get any worse. What a tragedy his life has become. He's become local gossip, a story in the papers, someone to whisper about over milkshakes at Pop's. Riverdale knows what happened to him, Alice Cooper made sure of that, much to his dismay and father’s rage. The people of this town had a new sticky, sweet story to sink their claws into, a new mystery that they would never solve. First Jason Blossom goes missing then Jughead Jones is taken and tortured through the night. Jason is Riverdale's finest, the golden apple to the Blossom family tree and Jughead Jones is the outsider, the snake curled up in the branches.

No one is safe. Darkness has arrived in Riverdale, it doesn’t care if you are rich or poor, good or bad, it’s coming for them all, and its appetite is insatiable. Jughead had danced on the fault line between light and dark all his life. He was curious about all the wrong things, read books about crime and loved horrors, loved hanging in the shadows, observing the light from afar. When he walked in the light it was with Archie; his brilliant light illuminated Jughead's world, chased away the gloom and misery that clung to him like a second skin. Perhaps there had always been a fault in his code, a crack in his soul that lured him to all things mysterious and dangerous.

Maybe he was just broken, born with tragedy in his blood, doomed from the very start.

“Jug, you ready to go?”

Jughead startles, troubled thoughts vanishing from his mind when the world settles around him. He blinks, taking in the daylight, the parade of colourful flowers that no longer look out of place. He grips his beanie in his hands, twisting the worn fabric around his fingers. The sheriff returned it to him a few days ago, he thought it had been lost, but it had been left inside that Godforsaken motel room this whole time. He didn't want it at first, thought he caught sight of blood, but it was just his imagination playing tricks on him. Tentatively he took it, hugging it to his chest, finding comfort in the familiarity of knitted fabric, the little buttons he added himself.

“Yeah, please, get me the hell out of here.” He is good at faking a smile, a light-hearted tone. He's worn a mask for so long; it has become second nature to hide the pain, blink back the tears and pretend he isn't slowly falling apart. Unfortunately, FP is good at seeing through the bullshit; he gives Jug a look that makes it loud and clear he isn't buying the lies he's being fed. He doesn't push, when maybe he should. Jughead wonders if he cares or if he just doesn't know how to talk to him. It's not like there is a manual or a guideline for something like this. Jughead keeps playing pretend, and FP keeps silent, eventually, someone is bound to break.

“You can still come home with me.”

Jughead knows that isn’t a good idea even if his dad is really trying. He hasn't had a drink in a week and Jug is proud of him but right now he needs stability, he needs somewhere that is safe and warm. Above all he needs Archie. Everyone else treats him like he is fragile, at any moment his stitches will unravel, and he'll shatter, spill crimson all over the floor. Archie doesn't act differently around him; he talks to him about school, football and all the mundane things Jughead never used to care about. Now he is grateful to hear Archie talk about what Reggie did at football practice or a teacher that is a pain in his ass.

Jug thought he'd never hear him speak again. At times when he remembers he nearly died, that he was almost murdered, a cold shock wave spreads through his body, taking the air from his lungs and twisting his gut. It feels like being hit by a truck, like someone has exposed all his nerves and poured ice into his veins. Someone tried to kill him, how does he live with that?

“Jug” his father’s touch brings him back, he jumps, shakes the thoughts from his mind.

“Sorry, I'm still a little foggy from the meds” it's a half-truth, the doctor only took him off the morphine yesterday, his back aches and pulls, his shirt feels uncomfortable against his skin. “I'm okay, let's just go.”

FP hesitates, looking between Jug and the wheelchair sitting by the door. He helps Jughead to stand, keeping a strong grip on his slender wrist, it's still bruised from the cuffs, but Jughead bites back the wince. He waits, lets his dad find the right words to say; he's never been good at communicating, it was his mum he used to confide in, only she isn't here. She didn't even come to visit. There was a phone call, brief and full of fakes promises. She hung up and didn't call again; he cried himself to sleep that night.

FP lets go of his wrist, hand moving to cup the side of his face. Jughead stills under the touch; he isn't used to his father being so gentle. “I know I'm not a perfect father, Jug and I haven't been around much lately, but if you need to talk, I am here. I'm done letting you down.”

“I know,” Jughead says on autopilot, “and I’m fine.” If he keeps pretending, keeps speaking the lie then maybe he’ll believe it.

“You are not fine, Jughead” his father declared sternly, “and you don't have to be. Not after what has happened.” He pauses, struggling with whatever words he wishes to speak next. “You're not fine, and neither am I.”

Jughead is surprised by the confession; he's never heard his dad admit to not being alright before. He’s reaching out, trying to help and Jug needs to let him, needs to reach back. “I’m not okay” he admits, feeling tears prickle at the corner of his eyes “But I’m not ready to talk about it, not yet.”

“I get it kiddo” FP kisses his son’s forehead before adding, “You’ve been through a lot, and I’m not going to push you, just know I’ll be here when you’re ready, okay?”

“Okay,” Jughead echoes, growing restless, wanting to get out of here, to return to the world and move on from this nightmare. “Can we go now?”

“Yeah, come on” he steers Jughead towards the wheelchair, “let’s get out of here.”

***

Archie is waiting for him on the front porch; he rushes down the steps to greet him, ever the caring boyfriend. Archie walks Jug up the front steps, he can walk fine on his own but he doesn’t want to push Archie away, he's only trying to help, and Jughead has bitten off enough heads this week. He's never been very good at accepting help, for so long now he's been taking care of himself, relying solely on himself to get through the day. Things are different now; he's not alone anymore.

Archie leads him into the house, his dad lingers outside, guilt and shame swirling in his eyes. Jughead knows he would try to look after him; he has been so kind and strong over the past week, always there after a bad dream, staying by his side through the long nights. Coming home changes things, at the hospital there were nurses to bring him his meds, meals were prepared, and all FP had to do is sit by his side. He needed to be taken care of, to have someone cook his dinner and help him change the bandages on his back, to wake him from the nightmares that were getting worse.

His dad was not ready, he was barely a week sober, and there was still so much stuff that needed to be sorted. FP had to get himself together, and Jughead needed somewhere safe to heal. So even though it hurts, he says goodbye to his dad at the door and lets Archie help him upstairs to the spare room where the guest bed has been made up for him. Archie settles him into bed, its soft, like a cloud and Jug wants to sink right in and sleep for years, centuries, waking up when the scars on his back have healed, and the man who tortured him is long gone.

It would be nice if things were that simple, if he could wake to a world where this never happened but that would take a miracle and Jughead does not believe in miracles. He believes in what he can see, what he knows and what he knows is that the man in the white mask will probably never be found. The Sheriff says he is looking but Jug isn’t Jason Blossom and no one really cares, not enough anyway. It’s not like Sheriff Keller is any good at his job, Jason Blossom is still missing, and Jughead begins to wonder if maybe he was taken by the same man.

Or maybe he skipped town, stole a bunch of cash and disappeared into the night, jumped on the back of a train heading to New York City and never looked back. He is somewhere, dead or alive and the Blossom’s will never stop looking for him. Sheriff Keller has to find him, or he might lose his job, and some other clueless idiot will take his place. He shakes the troubled thoughts from his mind, focusing on Archie, who is unpacking the many items and clothing from his backpack. There is an urge to tell him to stop, to just leave them, he'll only have to repack everything, but he shoves it down.

This is his home now.

Archie has brought him to a safe place, given him a bed to sleep in and a room that is all his own. He’s just going to have to get used to being looked after, to being loved unconditionally. Archie crawls onto the mattress beside him; task finished or forgotten as he lies down, smiling with the warmth of a thousand suns. Jughead misses being able to curl up in his arms, the scars on his back are too raw and painful to be touched, he can barely stand leaning against the mountain of pillows.

“Are you okay, Jug?" Archie asks, noticing him shift or maybe he senses the pain the way he sensed he was in danger. Jughead will never understand how Archie found him; he keeps saying it was like he was following an invisible tether, letting an otherworldly force guide him to the abandoned motel on the edge of town. “Did you need some more Tylenol? Are you hungry?”

Jughead smiles, feeling warmth spread through his chest “I’m fine, Arch” well that's not true, but he is okay, for the moment at least. “Though you know I’ll never say no to food.”

Archie grins, most people would assume he is unaffected by the trauma of finding his best friend bond, bloody and on deaths edge in a run-down motel but Jug knows better. He can see the pain flicker in Archie’s gaze, can sense the storm raging within. He isn't okay, they aren't okay, but they keep pretending, keep smiling and acting like themselves when in truth they are breaking, and Jughead isn't himself anymore, and neither is Archie. Archie will let the walls drop; he'll let Jug or his dad or Betty in because that is who he is, he can cry and break in front of people and let them pick up the pieces.

Jughead doesn’t know how to let people in, how to let them pick up the pieces of his shattered life. He will try though, if he doesn't he could drown, capsize in the raging sea that is his mind. If he doesn't open up, let someone in he might drown. But he isn't ready; he doesn't know where to start or what hurts the most. Someone tortured him, someone tried to kill him, and he has to live with that, live the scars and there has to be a way to move on with his life. To recover, to rebuild.

It seems like an awful lot of work, especially since there was more to his sorrow than what had been done to him. There was a mother who took off one day, taking his little sister but leaving him behind, there was his dad who was trying, but it didn't erase all the misery he had caused. There are years of bullying, of self-loathing and loneliness. There is an entire world of pain and trauma inside his chest. He is too tired to unpack it all. He’d rather say he is fine, force a smile and just move on with his life.

“I’ll get us some food," Archie says, slipping off the bed. “Jug…” he pauses in the doorway, fingers drumming against the wooden frame, “You know if you’re not fine you can tell me. Like, you don’t even have to talk about anything, you can just be honest.”

“It’s easier to pretend” he admits, finding the confession slips passed his lips with ease. “Can’t we just pretend awhile?” Pretend it never happened, pretend that his flesh hasn't been sliced, cut and carved by a devil with a sick desire to make people into angels, into fucked up pieces of art. He shivers, recalling how he spoke so elegantly, everything he did had a touch of grace, an artistic flare. Jughead’s body was a blank canvas and the man in the white mask was a twisted and deviant artist.

He called Jughead an ‘angel’ that he remembers clearly, the way said it made his skin crawl and stomach turn. He whispered things that revealed Jughead wasn’t the first, there had been other’s and there would be more. Jughead told Sheriff Keller about the things spoken in the dark, what he remembered anyway. He tried to make Keller see that whoever did this had done it before; there was a pattern to be found. Ever incompetent he found nothing, told Jug it was probably just some random sicko. 

He didn't believe that, but everyone else seemed to, it was easier to accept that some stranger passing through town had done this than acknowledge that this might have happened before. That there might be a serial killer in their midst and he might have even taken Jason Blossom. There could be a devil walking the streets of Riverdale, and everyone was too blind, too afraid to see it. They said Jason ran away or he drowned in Sweetwater River, his body was taken by the currents, chewed apart by the fish. It wasn’t the devil who took Jughead off the streets; it wasn't some serial killer who tortured him through the night, it was just a madman passing through.

There are blind eyes everywhere.

“Isn’t that exactly what we’ve been doing” Archie’s sunshine demeanour vanishes, raw pain taking over. “We keep acting like nothing has happened, but something did happen Jug. You nearly died. I found you covered in blood, tied to a table and I can’t get the sight of my head. It’s all I can see when I sleep at night.” Archie is breaking, the walls crumbling to ash. “I am so afraid that when I wake up you won't be here, that he'll have taken you again or… or” he trails off, sobs taking the words from his mouth.

“Arch” Jughead feels the walls rattle, the threads barely holding him together unravel. Archie breaks, and so does he. Sobs tear from Jug’s throat, the storm becomes a hurricane inside his chest, wreaking havoc, bringing tears. He cries for the first time, letting wave after wave surge through his fragile frame. He lets go, gives in to the pain, the sorrow. Breaking feels like dying, like he is being cut open, every nerve exposed to the cruel world.

“Jug” Archie’s hands are in his own, holding tight, never to let go. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s not your fault Archie” he shakes his head, angrily blinking back tears “God, I’m such a mess.”

“I think we both are” Archie sniffles, smiling even through the pain. “But we’re allowed to be” he cups Jug’s face, brushing away a falling tear with a calloused thumb. “You’re allowed to not be okay, Juggie. No one expects you to just shake this off. If you’re hurting then I’m here for you, my dad’s here for you. Don’t ever think you have to deal with this by yourself.”

He nods again, finding his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and his mind is growing foggy in fatigue. “Okay," dark lashes flutter, trying to chase away the approaching darkness. Body tired and weak he lies down, feeling Archie settle in next to him. He hears Archie whisper, words soft and tender against his skin ‘we're safe now,' and Jughead wants to believe him, but deep down in his bones, he knows that isn't true, he isn't sure anyone’s safe.


	3. The Kid's Aren't Alright

In the darkness is a neon glow, it's not the bright lights of Pop's, it doesn't fill him with happiness or safety. The glaring red glow makes fear grow beneath his skin, sends his heartbeat into an unsteady rhythm, he can hear it pounding in his head. Feet carry him forward; darkness stretches out in every direction, the only way to go is towards the ominous glow of the red motel sign. The ground feels damp beneath his bare feet; he shivers against the frigid air, the light mist of rain.

The sign flickers, for one terrifying moment he is suspended in the nothingness, he stops dead in his tracks, trembling, breathing hard. Red illuminates the dark once more; only the bright lights don't spell out motel anymore, they scream ‘this might hurt' and it does. Everything hurts. Pain bursts to life; blood seeps from the cuts tearing open on his back, escaping from the slashes that litter his body, dizziness has him swaying, stumbling, desperate to stand.

He falls down, down, down the rabbit hole, landing on a hard metal table that creaks when he moves, the plastic sheet sticking to his bloodied back. He tries to break free, an invisible force holds him in place, the pain is getting worse, and fear is a living beast within his chest. Struggling is useless; there is no escape. He’s fighting against a force he cannot see, and that stupid neon sign is glaring at him, letters shifting into something else. ‘Can you hear us?’ lights up the dark and illuminates the glistening black blood that soaks his skin.

He struggles against the invisible binds, desperate to get away from the darkness, the blood-soaked table and crimson sign. He screams, throat shredding under the abuse, lungs burning with the effort. No one is coming, there is no escape, creatures in the dark devour him, and all he can do is scream, scream until the darkness is gone, scream until he is awake and gasping for breath in Archie’s guest room. Comforting hands find him; a voice pulls him back from the abyss. 

It's just another sleepless night, another nightmare to add to the list. It's coming up to a fortnight since he was discharged from the hospital, since a monster tortured him. The pain is getting less each day, scars healing slowly, a constant reminder of the worst night of his life. The world spins madly on, Archie goes to school, and Fred goes to work while he stays at home, wandering the empty rooms, trying to still the thoughts running wild in his mind. Most days his dad stays with him, they don't really talk, Jughead doesn't know what to say to him, but he likes having the company, someone to sit beside on the couch.

Next Monday he will return to school with Archie, he’ll go to class, ignore the whispered comments that will follow him through the halls and try his damn best to move on with his life. At times like this, when he is trembling and crying, head swimming with distorted memories it seems impossible. Nights are filled with fear, with memories twisted into nightmares, the days are no better, full of misery and panic. He is falling apart, is going mad from lack of sleep, from the fear that is gasoline running through his veins. There are nightmares, panic attacks and he's even started sleepwalking, he is truly unravelling.

“Hey, Jug, you’re okay.”

The darkness ebbs, Jug exhales, seeing the poison leave his lungs in inky black tendrils. Mr Andrews’ hand is warm and comforting resting on his shoulder. Jug bows his head, hiding the tears, biting back a pitiful sob. “Sorry” he rasps, throat sore from screaming “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Kiddo, you don’t have to be sorry for having a nightmare” Fred tilts his face up. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s like the others.” There are many varieties of nightmares that haunt his subconscious. When he sleeps, he falls into a twisted world, a place of distorted memories that are neon-red and violent. He wakes screaming, trembling and choking on bile, drenched in sweat and for a few terrifying moments, he thinks its blood. “When will they stop?” He hates how young he sounds; how broken and timid he has become. This isn’t the person he used to be. He wants to be the sardonic sleuth again, to feel as happy and blessed as he did when he returned home from the road trip, ready to embark on a new adventure.

“It’s going to take some time, Jug” Fred’s eyes glisten with sorrow and Jug can see how tired he is, can see the bags under his eyes, the wrinkles and grey hairs. “Maybe when FP takes you to your doctor’s appointment tomorrow you should get the prescription for Valium made up? It will help you sleep, and I don't want you falling down the stairs if you sleepwalk again."

Fred had found him wandering the halls the other night, distressed and frightened, trying to escape a monster that was not there. Archie and Fred had to wait for him to wake before they could put him back to bed. Archie crawled into bed beside him, holding his hand all through the night. He doesn’t want to take the Valium, doesn’t want anything that will make him sleep, that could make his limbs feel heavy and head flood with cotton. He wants to stay in control, to be sharp, ready to run, to act if _he_ were to come back.

Everyone promises him that he is safe, that no one will take him again, but he can’t stop the fear anymore then he can stop the nightmares. As much as he loves Fred he can’t do what he is asking, just the thought of being dragged back into the abyss makes him panic. He's so sorry, he liked living here, loved waking up to a roof over his head and walking downstairs to find breakfast cooking. Living with Archie had been everything he could ever want, and he would lose it because he was too afraid to take some sleeping pills.

“I can’t” he admitted, a single tear trickling down his cheek “I just can’t.”

“Can’t what kiddo?”

"Take the Valium" he lowers his gaze again, looking down at the faded blanket. "He… he drugged me, and I don't want to feel like that again, I need to be in control.”

“Jug, if you don’t want to take them then I won’t force you," he said softly, ever the kind compassionate father. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I never want you to do something that makes you feel unsafe, okay?” He once more tilts Jug's face up; his eyes are warm and full of love and understanding.  “We’ll get you through this, I promise.”

Jughead would like to believe him but in the late hours, heart heavy and nightmare fresh in his mind, he can’t. Maybe in the morning, when the sun comes up, and Archie brings him a coffee with a smile on his face and kisses him on the lips he’ll believe it.

**~X~X~X~**

The world has become a cold, broken place. Riverdale is taken by the dark, streets drenched, roads flooding, soon they will be trapped here. There hasn’t been rain like this in nearly a decade, Riverdale is a place of sunshine, the town with pep and happy families who live in the big houses with their white picket fences. The town looks different under a sky laden with rain and crackling with lightning, all the colour and cheer swept away on the icy winds, lost down the storm drains that in another day will start overflowing into the streets.

The streets are mostly deserted, only a few shapeless figures move through the downpour, heads bowed to the wind or hands holding tight to umbrellas that could sail off at any moment. Pop’s lights up the sombre day, the neon red sign a beacon to the lost souls wandering the streets. Come inside; it appears to say, there is food and warmth in here, nothing bad could possibly happen under these pretty lights. Bad things happen anywhere, by the light of the moonlight or under the glowing lights of a cherished diner.

Jughead can't bring himself to go inside, the neon lights stir awake anxiety, and he has to turn away, focus on his breathing, on the windows fogging over. He's sitting in his dad’s old pick-up, radio playing some song he can’t make out over the heavy thud of rain. His dad went inside five minutes ago to get their lunch, the scars on his back twinge and pull when he shifts in the seat, Doctor Hadley had said everything was healing nicely, and Jughead gritted his teeth at her words, there is nothing nice about any of this.

It wasn’t until the stitches came out that he found the courage to see what had been done to him. It was bad enough he could see the various other scars scattering his body, but they were just jagged lines, some might even fade entirely with time. The ones on his back had been tenderly curved into his flesh, deep enough to need stitches, to last a lifetime. It was after his shower that he finally decided it was time to bite the bullet, with a pounding heart and closed eyes he looked over his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he let his eyes flutter open, finding a gruesome sight staring back at him.

Caught in the mirror was a boy with eyes full of fear, of horror. It took a while for him to see the shape of the wings, at first it was a jumbled mess of raised red lines, ugly and painful to look at. Slowly he saw past the gore to the induvial feathers that spanned over his shoulder blades, running down his back to the base of his spine. He tore his gaze away, choking back sobs, the urge to crumble to the floor and scream. He felt dizzy, out of place in his own skin, trembling and sickened by what he saw he threw on his clothes and retreated to his room where he hid under the covers.

He didn't want to be seen, didn't want to deal with any of it, so he hid, raised his towering walls and fell into despair. That was two days ago, his mood is bleak, and he hasn’t looked at his back again, won’t let Archie see because he doesn’t want to glimpse the horror, _disgust_ in his eyes. He is pushing everyone away, drowning in the darkness swirling through his mind and he doesn't have the energy to do a damn thing about it. Everything is too much, he is so tired, and it all just hurts so much.

Then he hears it, at first, he thinks it's just static, the weather messing with the radio. Reaching out he turns the dial, searching for signal, a song to chase the wild thoughts away when he hears it again, not static or white noise but… water. Not the heavy thud of the rain or a drip, drip, drip of a leaky faucet but the ebb and flow of a tide; crystal clear water lapping against the shore, tranquil and harmonious. He listens, leaning forward and turning up the volume, there are layers of sound, something is under the calm waters, and it wants to be heard, to be set free.

The world shifts around him, he has a strange sensation of flying, like he is being pulled from this very spot, moved through space and time to the edge of a river on a warm summers day. Shutting his eyes he can see Sweetwater River as it would have been in the summer time. Water shimmering like diamonds under a blistering sun, winking at those who walked by, calling out to them as they hiked through the woods. It lured them in with the promise of secrets, of hours of fun to be had but someone was unlucky, someone didn’t come back to the shore.

_Jason._

The steady ebb and flow fade to nothing, reality settles around Jughead, and he lifts his gaze to the rear-view mirror and finds Jason Blossom staring at him through sightless eyes. His once pristine white suit is torn and bloodied, body bloated and rotten from being lost at the bottom of the river. His skin is a combination of blue and grey; the fish have been feasting at his face and hands, when he goes to speak water trickles from his mouth, the wind whips through his trademark fiery red locks, revealing a gaping hole right between his eyes.

Jason was shot.

Jason Blossom was _murdered_.

Jughead slips out into the rain, an invisible force tugging at his strings, moving him to the place Jason was standing only moments ago. There is nothing there, not a hint or a whisper that anyone was ever there. Jughead feels a hand on his arm, he spins around, expecting to see Jason's soulless eyes staring back at him but the hand belongs to the living. His dad's grip is too tight; Jughead wants to pull away, to search the streets until he finds Jason again.

“Jug, what the hell are you doing?”

“I…  I thought I saw something.”

FP drags him back to the passenger side door, forcing him out of the rain since his body keeps pulling him in a different direction. When the door slams shut the connection breaks, Jughead gasps, shivers, tries to understand what had just happened. He saw Jason Blossom standing out in the rain, staring back at him through lifeless eyes that had sunk into his skull. This can't be real; he must be losing his fucking mind. Jason is missing, he probably ran off with a stack of cash and is living it up in some big shiny city, and when he realises he can't live without his parents, he’ll come running back.

But he won't. Jason Blossom is never coming back, he's dead, and his body is trapped in the freezing waters of Sweetwater river, the fish are feasting on his flesh and soon the river will flood and rage, and his body could end up anywhere. Jason Blossom was murdered in the summer, on a sweltering day while he and Archie were out of town, fooling around in a tent or entering yet another diner that wouldn’t be as good as Pop’s. Jughead knows this like he knows Archie loves him, like he knows every out of place stitch on his beloved beanie. Jason Blossom had seemed as palpable as the rain falling from the sky; he was real, he was there. Wasn’t he?

“Jughead” FP shakes him, Jughead snaps to attention, only now realising how cold he is. “What did you see?”

“Nothing” he didn’t see Jason Blossom, with his trademark red hair and stupid matching red converse sneakers that cost more than Jughead’s entire wardrobe. “I’m just tired” there was no way he saw a corpse standing in the rain, a boy risen from the dead, a lost soul searching for a way home. “I didn’t see anything.” He didn’t see Jason Blossom in a once pristine white suit, the exact same suit Cheryl said he was wearing the morning he disappeared.

He didn’t see a damn thing, it’s just not possible.

***

Jughead sits on the old blue couch, buddled in blankets with Vegas snug next to him and a book that he isn’t reading held in hands that haven’t stopped shaking. He’s been re-reading the same page over and over, the worlds are meaningless, his mind keeps spinning back to the parking lot at Pop’s, to what he saw staring back at him through the rear-view mirror. It couldn’t have been real, his mind is playing tricks on him, nights of not sleeping and nightmares are mounting up. There was no dead teenage boy standing in the rain, there is nothing to fear, he is fine, everything is fine.

There is a book that needs reading, school work that needs completing before Monday and in a few short hours, Archie will be home. He spends the next half hour reading, trying to absorb the words but every noise makes him startle, the slightest jingle of a chime, a car door slamming shut or his father’s footsteps echoing from the other room make him tense. It feels like he can’t calm down, like ever since the morphine left his veins he has become hyperaware of the world around him.

There is a world for what he is feeling: hypervigilance. It means he is in an enhanced state of sensory overdrive, a common symptom of PTSD. The nightmares, the sleepwalking, mood swings, they are all part of the parcel, and they’re accompanied by panic attacks and fatigue, so it’s no wonder he’s seeing dead kids. He can’t help but think it’s more, that something inside him is broken, is forever changed and unfixable. The foggy memory of the moment he screamed in the hospital replays often in his mind, the record spins around and around and the scream that sounded inhuman and haunted repeats.

People aren’t meant to sound like broken, haunted things. Maybe it’s all in his head, just another drug-induced dream, an illusion from stress and shock. This is all because of the panic pulsating through his veins, nestling in his lungs and making a home within his heart. There is only the ugly, bitter reality and it sits heavy on his shoulders, is curved painfully into his skin. Imagining that something else is afoot, that there could be a mystery to solve was easier to deal with this than admitting the truth.

He was spiralling.

Giving up on the task at hand he untangles himself from the blanket, heading to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. FP is sitting at the island, reading a newspaper from three weeks ago, Jug pats him on the back as he walks by. He moves through Archie’s house with ease, these floors know the feel of his feet, the mugs remember how he takes his coffee and if the walls could talk they could tell him stories even he has forgotten.

He could walk through this place blindfolded, from the front door to Archie’s room. There are memories to be found at every turn, birthday parties, fights, first kisses at twelve and secrets that will never be told. Upstairs he has a room, a place to call his own for the first time in months and despite the pain and the nightmares and anxiety this house still feels safe to him. Unfortunately, locked doors and strong walls would not be enough to protect him from what was unfolding in the town around him. Bricks and mortar, memories and stories wouldn’t keep him safe from what was unfolding within him.

The kettle boils, Jug pours the water into his favourite mug, there’s nothing fancy about it, but this is the mug he had when he first tried coffee at thirteen. Strong, no milk, no sugar, is how he has always taken it, Archie doesn’t like coffee, prefers energy drinks, Jug can’t live without it. He takes a sip and sighs, he is thirteen again, tired from spending the night playing video games with Archie. He trudges into the kitchen with messy hair, rubbing at his eyes and yawning, Fred smiles, laughs and offers him a cup of coffee. He was probably only half serious but Jughead said yes and he’s never looked back.

The memory fades, leaving a bittersweet taste in his mouth, he sighs again, weary, thinking of the innocence lost. Then he hears it, faint at first, a soft scratching sound, like claws or nails scratching against wood. Vegas is still asleep in the living room, there is no one standing outside the back door but Jughead feels compelled to walk towards it. He peers out through the window, the sound is getting louder, desperate, frantic. Has Jason followed him home, did he blow here on the autumn winds? Was he standing in the back garden, waiting, waiting, waiting.

“Jug, what are you doing?”

Startled back to reality he recoils from the door, shaken. Words can’t escape past the scream that sits in his throat, builds in his chest, he swallows, breathes, the feeling fades. The noise has stopped, there is only the sound of rain and the rumble of thunder to be heard. Strong hands grip tight to his shoulders, leading him away from the door, to a seat at the island. He sits down without fuss, FP pulls up a stool next to him.

“Jug, what’s going on?”

If he opens his mouth, if he speaks the truth his father won’t believe him, no sane person would. He is seeing things, hearing things, if his dad believed in therapy, then this would ship him off to a shrink a shrink. “I just spaced out” the lie slips off his tongue with ease, “I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Fred said” FP crosses his arms, he saw right through the lie, it’s just matter of luck whether he pushes or not. “I may not be the brightest Jug, but I know when you are lying to me.”

“You wouldn’t understand” he looks down at the dark liquid in his mug, it ripples from the tremor in his hands.

“Try me?”

Jughead lifts his gaze to meet his father’s steady one, he doesn’t want to reveal that he saw Jason Blossom, doesn’t want to talk about the nightmares or how he is terrified that whoever hurt him will come back to finish the job. “Someone tried to kill me, can’t I be traumatised by that in peace?” his tone is bitter, FP is only trying to help and Jughead bites and snarls, hides behind his armour.

“Is that what you want?” he sounds hurt, frustrated “For me to just let you deal with this on your own?”

“I’ve had to deal with everything else on my own for the past three months,” It’s a low blow, but the words sail right off his tongue.

“You chose to leave, Jughead, I didn’t make you” FP snaps, his rage did always get the better of him. “This isn’t my fault.”

“I asked you to pick me up” Jughead’s throat tightens, the words sharp on his tongue. “I wanted to stay the night at the trailer because it was so fucking cold in the school and you said you didn’t have the time!” He jumps to his feet, the force toppling the stool to the ground. “It is your fault.”  

“Hey, I couldn’t have known that some whack job was going to grab you off the street!” He shouted, temper rising. “I knew you were capable of taking care of yourself, so I figured you’d find a way home. You don’t get to put the blame on me.”

Jughead can’t hold back the hatred creeping up his throat, can’t forces back the bitter tears “Of course, you’re always too busy with the Serpents to take care of your family, if you spent more time with us then maybe mum and Jellybean wouldn’t have left! And speaking of snakes, how do you know it wasn’t one of them that did this to me?” Deep down he doesn’t believe it was a Southside Serpent who did this to him, there was a certain elegance to the man in the white mask. Right now, he doesn’t care though, he is angry and hurting and he wants to leave scars.

“They are not killers, and you know that” FP shouted, “they wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Well someone did” the anger dies in his veins, flames turning to ash. “Someone used me like a blank canvas and then they left me to die, alone, in the dark.” There is no fury or venom, only sorrow and tears now. “I was in so much pain, and I was so afraid.”

The tension vanishes from the air, FP pulls Jug into his embrace just as he starts to break. He weeps into the worn-out material of his dad’s favourite flannel shirt, broken sobs muffled in the fabric. FP’s arms encircle him, placed carefully at his waist so he doesn’t cause any harm to the deeper scars stretching over his shoulder blades. FP holds him close and Jughead shatters. It’s messy, painful but he knew it was coming, there is only so much pretending one person can do. He doesn’t fight the tears or the sobs, he lets the grief pour out of his chest, fill the air around them.

FP whispers that he is sorry, Jug apologises as well, he didn’t mean to be so harsh, so cruel, everything is just so damn messed up right now. He was tortured and left for dead, his mind is in ruins, making him see dead things, hear strange things and dream of terrifying places. He is not okay, he wants to be, but something has opened inside his chest, a piece of his soul was taken in the night and now he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to be the same.

**~X~X~X~**

Archie arrives home late, soaking wet and pissed off at the world. He stomps through the house, up the stairs and to his room where he throws his bag to the floor to sit with the od pair of socks and scattered papers and collapses onto the bed. He spent the last hour in detention because Reggie made a vague insult about something he can’t even remember now, but at the time it seemed really important to put Reggie in his place. It wasn’t worth detention or the black eye he is currently sporting, he’s just so angry lately.

There is all this nervous energy building inside him, a mighty need to lash out. He knows where the rage is coming from, it’s been growing every day since he found Jug in that Godforsaken motel room. The fear had given way to anger, each day he waits for Sheriff Keller to arrive at their door, hat in hand, and tell them he’s found the person responsible for hurting Jughead. Each day he doesn’t show, each day Jug’s pain grows, his fear and anxiety taking hold of him, taking him from Archie.

Jughead promised he wouldn’t go anywhere, but he seems to be fading right before his very eyes. Archie tries to stay positive around Jug, to not let his anger or worry show and sometimes, in fleeting moments, things are okay. They are playing video games or watching movies, and everything is the way it should be, then the sun goes down, the nightmares start, a dark mood will descend over Jughead and that fleeting moment is ripped from his hands.

Archie thinks if the guy who did this was caught it might make a difference. He knows Jug is afraid of him coming back, breaking into the house in the dead of the night to finish what he started, though he’s never said it aloud. Archie knows though, he knows because it’s his fear too. It keeps him awake, follows him into his dreams, giving him nightmares where he wakes to find Jughead gone, nothing but his beloved beanie and sheets stained red to remember him by.

He is so afraid, some nights he can’t even sleep, spends them pacing the house, peering in to check on Jughead, making sure he is still there. Some nights, when he is desperate for sleep, he’ll crawl into bed with Jug. They sleep soundly when they are curled up together under the covers, safe in each other’s presence. He wishes Jug could move into his room, his bed is plenty big enough, but his dad thinks it’s best to give Jug space, a place to retreat to when he needs some time alone.

Jughead hasn’t had a room of his own in months; he lost his house then he lived in a rusty old trailer, sleeping on a couch before leaving to sleep in the Twilight drive in. Archie can survive a few sleepless nights to give Jug this; he deserves a place to call his own. What he can’t let slide is how no one is doing anything to find the monster who hurt his best friend. It’s been ten days since Jughead was taken and there is no evidence, just dead ends, just excuses, he wants to see some action, get some damn answers.

“Arch?”

Archie sits up to find Jughead standing in the doorway, skin pale and eyes rimmed red like he has been crying. He looks frail; it only makes Archie want to protect him more. “Hey, Juggie” he pats the bed beside him, an invitation, “How was your day?”

“Boring mostly” he shrugs, bites his lip the way he does when he isn’t telling him everything. “Your dad said you got into a fight with Reggie, is everything okay?”

“He was just being a dick” he waved it off, flopping back against the bed as Jug sat down, placing a cold hand on his stomach. “You’re freezing” Archie reached for him, wrapping Jug’s hand in his own, a combination of fire and ice. “Everything’s kinda fucked up right now, Jug.”

“Yeah, I know” he lay down on his side next to Archie, keeping their hands clasped tight. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

Archie turns to face him, using his free hand to brush away a stray curl, he doesn’t know what to say, the right words never came easily to him. He wished they were back on the open road, that it was a blistering hot summers day and they were driving to some far-off place where everything was bright and safe. He wanted to turn back time, to be under a glittering night sky with grass against his back and mosquitos biting his bare skin. He often reflects on the night they spent making out under the stars, Jughead’s skin new and familiar to him, the little sounds of pleasure he made music to Archie’s ears.

He learnt a lot about Jughead on their road trip, they came back a little different, a little less innocent but in a good way. The world was a bright, happy place after that; he wrote songs about camp fires and starry night skies, about two boys falling in love on an open road and in booths in highway diners. Things had been so great, for Archie at least, Jughead’s world had started unravelling, but he always had a smile for Archie, would crawl through his window late at night to surprise him with his favourite candy.

Now he is broken hearted and haunted, lying next to him and confessing that he is losing his mind. Archie won’t let that happen; his anger isn’t going to solve anything, so he expels it from his lungs in a long sigh. He kisses Jughead because sometimes he finds he can say more with a kiss. It makes Jughead smile, which makes him look a little less haunted _, broken_. This is what Archie can do; he’s always been the one who could reach Jughead, who could pull him from a dark mood or make a bad day better.

“We’re not alright, are we Jug?”

Dark lashes flutter closed; Jughead lets his forehead rest against Archie’s “No” he admits, breath whispering over Archie’s skin.

“We’re going to get better” Archie vowed, believing it with every fibre of his being, with all his heart, “I promise, we’re going to get better.”

And they will, one day in a far-off future they will be okay, but it’s always darkest before the dawn and dawn is a long way off.


	4. Gift in The Destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for the leaving lovely comments and kudos :) It means a lot! Hope you enjoy this chapter, and I will be back next week!

By Sunday the rain has gone, Riverdale dries off under a clear blue sky; giving the town it’s last few rays of sunshine before winter descends upon them. Jughead rises early, chased from sleep by another nightmare that feels like a memory, the cracks in his mind are filled with snapshots of what was done to him in the dead of night. None of it helps in any way; there is no way to distinguish memory from a nightmare, the dreams only make things worse. He never saw the man's face, only the plastic doll-like mask that muffed his voice the way the stitches muffled his screams and in the dim lighting, his body was a shapeless figure looming over him.

He doesn't want to think about the gaps in his memory; he'd rather forget forever than remember every detail of that Godforsaken night. He is tired of feeling miserable, of being caged by his fear, he wants his life back. Today he is going to be different he decides as he throws off the covers and heads downstairs to the kitchen. He and Archie need to have some fun, get out of the house, go to Pop's like they do every Sunday where they devour pancakes smothered in homegrown maple syrup.

Jughead takes his coffee out onto the front porch; it's still early, so he'll let Archie sleep for another hour. The bright morning has hope blooming in his chest, he stares out at the neighbourhood with a small smile on his face, thinking how Riverdale looks truly idyllic and innocent under a blue sky. He'll never forget the shadows, the dark underbelly of this place. Today he wants to pretend awhile, push aside the fear and misery. He will enjoy the feeling of hope in his chest, the absence of panic, it won't last, the night will bring new terrors, but for now, Jughead has a chance at momentary peace.

He drinks his coffee in the morning sun, enjoying the sensation of the warm beams against his too cold skin. Archie wakes not long after him, stumbling out the front door bleary-eyed and hair dishevelled. He sits next to Jughead, head pillowed on his shoulder and strands of red hair tickling his cheek. It's sweet; it feels like this is the most intimate they've been in a while. Jughead hasn't felt much like making out or having sex; he's barely enjoyed being touched since the night he was tortured. Mostly it was because of the pain; the first week was hell, there were so many wounds to watch out for that he gave up seeking comfort.

It was painful to be held when his body was an array of scars. His left arm had a collection of thin lines running diagonally from the inside of his elbow all the way to his wrist, they weren't severe enough to need stitches, but they were thick enough to leave scars. There was a jagged, ugly red line running from his collarbone to his sternum, there was a six-inch scar on his abdomen and another deep cut running up his shin, more blemishes to add the collection. The worst was the wings on his back; they still pained him when he moved a certain way or lay on it too long.

The pain wasn't all-consuming anymore, the phantom touch of a knife blade had slowly faded, and with Archie's body warm against his he can feel the ice start to thaw. He isn't about to drag Archie upstairs for some morning sex, but he finds himself lacing their fingers together. Archie lifts his head, a smile to rival the sun gracing his handsome face. Jughead kisses him, soft and as slow as this lazy Sunday morning. His lips don't hurt anymore; the swelling took a week to go down and sometimes he still wakes expecting to find his mouth sewn shut. He doesn't tell anyone this, but he kisses Archie again, just because he can.

“I thought we should go to Pop’s for breakfast” he suggests.

“I’d love to Jug” he is all smiles, and dazzling brown eyes and Jughead thinks he must have used up all his luck on Archie. “I think we could both use it; maybe we can make a day of it? I’ve been going a little stir crazy being stuck indoors for the past two weeks.”

"Sure, it's about time I got back out into the world" he tried to mirror Archie's smile, but the underlying fears he was trying to hide made it feel half-hearted. "We can hit up the record store after?"

“Maybe the thrift store as well? They might have some cool stuff you can decorate your room with.”

Jughead freezes for a moment, he's been living in the Andrew's guest bedroom for a fortnight and never did he stop to think of it has his. The wardrobe and dresser might hold his clothes, his laptop might sit on the desk, but never did he think he could make the space his. Archie's telling him he can; he is going to take him to buy things to decorate with, things that will say ‘Jughead Jones lives here'. Warmth spreads through his chest, smile brightening as Archie's words settle on his skin. This is his home, upstairs is a room that he allowed to make his own.

He kisses Archie, he could say a dozen sappy things, but that's not really their style, but their kisses always speak louder than words.

***

Pop's is always relatively busy on Sunday mornings, families and friends gathering to have the most delicious pancakes in town served with locally grown maple syrup. Today is no different; the sun has brought everyone out to play, to start the day off with grease and sugar. Jughead doesn't like the eyes that keep peering his way; eager questions hanging in the air, curious faces looking away when he catches them staring. No one used to turn his way, he'd walk through the door unnoticed, drifting through the world like a ghost, no one was curious before he became the boy who was found bloody and barely alive in the abandoned motel outside of town.

Little did he know that soon he'd be known for more, that the curiosity would change to judgment, to fear. This morning he can ignore them, focus on Archie who seems oblivious to the heads swivelling their way. Jughead distracts himself by looking over the menu, though he already knows what he'll order, a stack of pancakes with a side of bacon to share with Archie and a cup of coffee to chase it down. Archie will order the same; only he'll get orange juice because Jug still hasn't managed to get him to drink coffee, it's a work in progress.

They are halfway through their meals when Veronica and Betty walk in, slipping into the booth next to them. Betty is at his right, she looks tired, a little worn around the edges but no one else would notice, her ponytail is tied high, and her clothes are clean and neat. Veronica looks like she's stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine and he starts to feel self-conscious in his ratty old grey sweaty, second-hand khaki jacket, ripped skinny jeans and dirty combat boots. If Betty looks tired only from up close, then Jughead is sure everyone in this diner can see the anxiety written on his skin, the nightmares in the bags under his eyes.

He should have spent more time looking in the bathroom mirror, but he hates what he finds staring back at him. He loathes getting changed, having to see the scars that are still raw and painful. Even with their flaws the people around him always look put together, bright and preppy while he is swamped in clothing and unravelling even though he is pretending for today that he isn't. Something taps at his leg, he finds Archie's eyes and the anxiety evaporates from his bloodstream, he is spiralling for no reason.

He breathes, takes a mouthful of pancakes and sits back, closing his eyes for a heartbeat. The world shifts, the air growing cold, the chattering voices and musical laughter trickling away to silence. Sensing that something is wrong his eyes snap open, finding the diner empty, life and colour drained away. He shivers, it's so quiet he is almost fooled into thinking his hearing aids have stopped working, but then he hears it, the ring of the bell followed by footsteps.

He can't move, something won't let him, the footsteps are louder now, something crunches beneath their feet. Jughead looks down at the floor; it glistens with shards of glass; a cold gust of wind blows in through the open window just as a pair of mud-streaked sneakers appear. Jughead's gaze travels up the boy's body; he is dressed in jeans that are a size too big for his narrow hips, a red plaid button-down that is open to reveal a black t-shirt that has some faded band logo printed in the centre. 

The boy is no older than seventeen; he has brown eyes that look like pools of melted amber and dark hair shaved in a buzzcut. He could be any teenager, could live two houses away from Archie or across town at the trailer park. But he doesn't, Jughead knows this the way he knows he is a lonely misfit who talks too much and knows too much, so the jocks pick on him, and everyone else thinks he weird. He could be a runaway passing through town on his way to somewhere better, but Jughead thinks, you need to be alive to be a runaway.

This boy is dead, has been for a long time. He may have looked alive before, but that has changed, his frame is skeleton-like, face hollowed and flesh rotting to the bone. His neck is bent at a painful angle; the skin bruised purple like someone had snapped it like a twig. He reaches for Jughead with a decaying hand that is missing two fingers, the boy tries to speak, or maybe he is screaming, either way, his lips won't open, they were sewn shut long ago. He stumbles closer, Jughead recoils, scared that if this lost boy takes hold of him, then he won't ever be able to leave this place.

Jughead has nowhere to go; he can't move, is frozen in fear. There is a hand wrapping tight around his throat, crushing his windpipe with an inhuman force. He tries desperately to break free, blunt nails clawing at rotting flesh, it peels away like tissue paper. He doesn't want to be here anymore; he wants to back under the neon lights, this version of Pop's is crumbling to ruins, the booths torn, tables covered in dust and glistening shards of glass. There is no sunshine here, no happy families or friends laughing over milkshakes, this is a hollow place, and Jughead wants to go home.

He screams.

It shatters the hellish dimension around him; colour bleeds back in, vibrant and neon. Warmth chases away the cold, but the silence remains. A hush has fallen over the diner, eyes wide with shock, with fright, stare at him like he has gone mad. Betty and Archie are reaching for him, Veronica looks confused and horrified, and it's only now he realises his back is pressed against the wall, body trembling, mouth hanging open with the tail end of a scream dying in his lungs. The whispers start, Betty and Archie have stopped mid-reach, looking unsure if they should touch him or not.

Jughead flees. He manages to climb out of the booth and run from Pop's without falling, which is a miracle given how unsteady his legs feel, how unsteady every inch of him is. He rushes out into the bright, bright day, ignoring the concerned cries shouting after him. He needs to get away, to be anywhere but here. He runs until his lungs feel like they have been drenched in gasoline and set ablaze, he collapses to the pavement outside the local pet store, the one Archie got Vegas from six years ago.

He leans against the wall; the bricks are cold and hard against his back; he can't take the pain, so he slouches forward. He doesn't know what to do, where to go. He has no home to go to, not really, and he doesn't want to visit his dad. Archie and Betty are probably looking for him, the whole damn diner is probably already labelling him crazy, and inevitably, they wouldn't be wrong. Seeing things, hearing things and hallucinating are all signs of going mad. The thing is, he doesn't feel like he is losing his mind, which is probably a sign that he is.

There is no probable way what he just witnessed was real, he didn't somehow slip out of his body and appear in another realm, a world full of dark things and horrors. That boy with his grunge clothing and sad eyes looked so much like him, but he couldn't be real. That version of Pop's with its cracked, dirty floors glistening with broken glass and walls rotting away couldn't exist. Jughead did not believe in ghosts, not in ghouls or monsters, only the ones disguised as humans. That hollow, haunted place must only exist in his mind; he must have fallen asleep, tumbled into a nightmare.

That had to be it.

“Jughead!”

He snaps back to the present; he is still sitting outside the pet store, Archie is kneeling next to him, eyes glistening with concern. “I’m fine” the lie falls off his tongue with ease.

“Jug you nearly screamed the roof off Pop’s, you are not fine.”

Jughead looks away, studying the assortment of flowers that sit outside the florist, he doesn’t want to answer Archie, to admit he doesn’t know what is going on with him, that he isn’t okay, he is a thousand miles in the wrong direction of fine. “I don’t know what happened” he didn’t see a lost teenage boy, didn’t see Jason Blossom the other day or hear running water over the car stereo or scratching at the back door.

"Juggie, you don't have to hide things from me" Archie sits down on the pavement, resting a hand on his knee, he can feel the warmth of skin through the rips in his jeans. "Something must have happened? You were totally fine then you started freaking out and the way you screamed." Terror flickers in Archie's eyes; it reminds Jug of the hospital, perhaps it wasn't a dream after all.

He remembers the inhuman sound, the way it vibrated from his lungs and exploded into the air with all the force of a bomb. Something is terribly wrong with him. “I know, but I don’t know what happened,” His tone is cold, words final. Jughead rises on trembling legs, he turns his back to Archie, walking absentmindedly towards the pet store. “Can you just let it go?”

“Jug, I’m trying to help you” Archie appears at his side, eyes troubled and sad. He must see something in Jughead’s eyes, sense the walls fortifying around his heart, because he sighs, drops the subject even though it’s killing him. “I’m sorry, I’m just worried about you.”

Jughead lowers his defences; this was Archie, his best friend since childhood, his boyfriend, he wasn't going to turn tail and run, not now, not ever. Jughead opens his mouth and says, "I thought I saw something… something I can't explain, and I'm scared to death that I'm losing my fucking mind."

“There was nothing there, Jug” Archie steps closer, voice soft and steady. “Maybe you were dreaming?”

“While awake?”

"I don't know, maybe?" he shrugs. "All I know is you've been through something traumatic, and it's understandable that you are experiencing strange things." Archie takes his hands, holding a little too tight like he is afraid Jughead might disappear if he lets go. "You're not losing your mind, Juggie."

Archie was right, which isn't often, but this time he was, he had to be. All the weird stuff happening was because of the trauma he’d gone through. He'd been through this same conversation in his head the other day; it was sleepless nights and a mind flooded with anxiety that was making him see _these_ things.

"Okay," he deflates, feeling like someone has cut his strings. "You're right, I'm just tired and beautifully traumatised."

“Jug, maybe you need to see someone?”

"Maybe, but can we table that for another time?" he doesn't want to talk about this anymore. He wants to pretend he didn’t cause a scene, didn’t see a dead boy trapped in some terrifying alternate reality, is going to do as he intended and have a normal fucking day.

“Sure” Archie pulled him in for a gentle hug, Jughead sags against him, feeling safe at last in his arms. “Want to go home?”

"No," he says against Archie's skin. "I planned on feeling like a normal, functioning member of society today."

Archie laughed, holding him at arm’s length, hands warm and stable on Jug’s narrow waist. "Want to go to the pet store then?"

“Sure” he felt himself smile, despite the strange and frightening morning Archie always manages to bring him back into the light.

For the moment at least. 

***

The rest of the morning goes by uneventfully; there are no more visions or hallucinations, no imaginary sounds or boys. Jughead plays with a four-month-old kitten with the most silver eyes that is up for adoption at the pet store; she takes a shine to him, digs her tiny little claws into his jacket as he goes to leave. They head to the music store, browsing through records and DVDs, Archie keeps a close eye on him, keeps checking his phone and firing off texts. Jughead doesn't have the money to buy anything, what little cash he has he needs to keep for the thrift store as he is dire need of new winter clothing. He's also a little excited at the thought of being able to get a few things to decorate his room with, everything he used to own is gone now. Archie buys a few movies and an Ed Sheeran CD that he'll no doubt force him to listen to.

The sky is still a brilliant blue when they leave the music store, leaves swirl around their ankles, dancing on the sly breeze that ruffles fingers through the hair and nips at exposed skin. Jughead lets Archie hold his hand, allows him to open doors and buy him a hot chocolate at Ella's Expresso Bar which is a hipster coffee shop that sits on the corner near the old bookstore and across the road from the thrift shop. He feels guilty for shutting Archie out earlier, for being cold, this is his way of apologising, of letting Archie know he needs him.

Jughead keeps thinking back to this morning; he is terrified that any moment reality will slip from his grasp and he'll find himself in that hollowed out place, Jason Blossom will appear in the shop window, or the lost boy will brush past him on the street. He fears his own mind, is scared to close his eyes, to open a door and find a world that has fallen to ruin, that is cold, dark and home to dead things. He holds tight to Archie every time he hears something that is out of place; he anchors himself to him in hopes that it will be enough to save him from the dark.

It won’t be, it’s already started, the darkness has found a way into his heart, _his soul_ and it won’t let go.

That is yet to be learnt, for now, Jughead is stepping into the stuffy heating of the thrift store. Nearly everything he owns has come from here; there are plenty of treasures to be found in the shadowy, cobweb riddled corners of the store. He got his first camera from here, didn't stop taking photos for one second after he got a taste for it. Unfortunately, one day one of the jocks snatched it from his hands and shattered it at his feet. He remembers coming home in tears, remembers his mum comforting him and two months later she surprised him with a replacement.

She had cared once, had been there to wake him from bad dreams and make him soup when he was sick. She had left, and Jughead didn't think she was coming back, didn't think she cared about him anymore at all. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he grabs Archie's hand and drags him to the back of the store, where there is always so much to find. For the next hour, the world falls away; it's just the two of them playing dress up in coats that smell like mothballs and cigarettes and scarfs made of expensive silk.

In the corners, hidden high on shelves and tucked away in piles of junk they find hidden gems. On a cluttered, dusty shelf is an illustration of film noir styled poster cased in a thick, shiny black frame. High on a top shelf overflowing with china dolls and falling apart teddy bears is a pillow in the shape of a burger. Tucked in a box overflowing with junk is a retro red alarm clock, a tangled mess of string lights and a poster proclaiming, ‘Resistance is Here'. Archie laughs at him, kisses him on the cheek then steers him towards another section of the shop to explore.

It's there that Jughead finds a black Crosley portable briefcase record player, it's sitting amidst the kettles, toasters and radios. He'd seen them online before, had planned on saving up for one, but then he left home, and his money disappeared faster than he could make it. Now there is a near new one sitting right before his very eyes; he's never felt so tempted. Finding the price tag, he is shocked to discover they're only charging fifty dollars for it. If he buys it he'll be all out of cash; he'd have to ask his dad for some money if he wanted to eat at Pop's again, though after this morning he doesn't think he'll be showing his face there anytime soon.

Screw it, someone tortured him then left him to die; he's spent the last two weeks afraid and miserable, he's going to treat himself for once in his damn life. He buys it, feeling giddy and a little nervous to be parting with so much cash but things are changing. He's living with Archie for now; his dad is getting sober, surely, he deserves to have nice stuff, to have the things every other teenager in this town has. They leave with arms loaded , Jughead feels lighter, can almost pretend this morning didn't happen. They walk home under a blinding blue sky, decaying leaves swirling at their feet, the promise of winter in the air.

**~X~X~X~**

It's starting to get dark when Jughead wakes; the room is cold and quiet. Archie is gone, he'd been there when he drifted off, the bed is still warm to the touch, so he can't have been gone long. On the nightstand, he notices a yellow square of paper stuck to his new alarm clock. Jughead blinks the sleep from his eyes, vision clearing as the words settle into place, revealing that Archie and his dad have taken Vegas for a walk and they'll be back soon. Jughead sighs in relief, plucks the sticky note from the red clock and tucks it into his pocket like it's something important.

To him, a sticky note, a kiss on the cheek or a hand to hold are important, are wonderful, sweet, kind gestures that he cherishes. His parents never left notes; they would simply disappear, at times Jughead feared they'd never return. He'll keep this close to his heart, remember the little smiley face and curve of the letters. He smiles to himself, hugs the burger-shaped pillow to his chest and feels himself drift off again. It starts like a whisper, so soft he isn't sure he heard anything until the sound grows louder.

It's a soft whistle, it drifts in from far, far away, seeps through the closed windows and pours into his head to create the faintest sound. It's all he can hear. The distant wail moving closer, getting louder like the very source is outside this house and will crash right through the walls. The sound is only in his mind; it's filling up his head, flooding his body with distress. Closer it comes, louder it grows. He shudders at the high-pitched screech, the sound travels to his very core, rattling every bone. This can't be happening, not again.

He shakes his head in a weak attempt to dislodge the sound, it only intensifies. It's deafening, it's _maddening_. This can't be real; this isn't happening. It must be the hearing aids; something is going awry, they're fritzing out on him. Tearing them from his ears with a cry he throws them onto the bed, for a heartbeat the noise stops, there is just white noise and the pounding of his heart. Then the sound explodes in his head, trembling hands grasp at his skull, which feels like it’s about to shatter into a million pieces.

The shrieking wail has him doubling over, crying out. It won’t stop, only crescendos, consumes the world around him. No thought or reason can reach through the ear-splitting sound. A scream builds in his chest, climbs up his throat and bursts into the air with such force the windows rattle and the house shudders and shakes. He screams, and the world as he knows it disappears in a sonic boom. Then there is silence, the paint on the walls starts to flake, peeling off in layers, rising towards a roof that is ripping open to expose a moonless night.

The mattress deteriorates beneath Jughead's body, the floor sags and the glass trickles in shiny diamond-shaped pieces to the floorboards that have splintered with rot. Colour and warmth are snuffed out; the world is reduced to a dark, terrifying place. Outside the trees groan and moan, the pristine houses across the street are splintering, glass shattering from the windows as paint chips away, floating up towards the sky. Jughead knows he can't stay here in the ash and ruin of his best friend's house, no matter how frightening the outside world has become he has to leave, must follow the whistle that echoes on the wind, luring him the way a siren lures a sailor.

He must give chase.

He follows the thread down the rotten, half collapsed staircase; he lets the lurch in his gut lead him through the woods, past the trees that claw and tear at his clothes and skin with sharp teeth and spindly clawed hands. He allows the ghostly apparition to show him the way, to take him all the way through the forest of hands and teeth, to the edge of woods where he stops on the train track. Jughead stands at the boy’s side, up close Jug can see he isn't the same boy from Pop's.

His appearance is no different, thrift store clothes, pale flesh and dark, messy hair that whips about in the wind. Another misfit, an outcast that could disappear in the middle of a crowded room and no one would notice. No one went looking for him; no one cared enough, that's why he's standing on a train track. No, that's only part of the reason. The reason he is staring down death is because he can't take the pain anymore, the misery. He must escape.

The torture he has endured the last few months broke him, stole any hope or fight he had left. He was going to move to New York. He was going to be a star on Broadway, but someone sewed his mouth shut so he could not sing, someone curved up his flesh and broke his bones, so he could not dance. This is the only way; this is the only escape. The train is closing in, the monster who did this is chasing after him, but he'll never make it in time.

The train is nearly upon them, and Jughead cannot move.

**~X~X~X~**

Archie is walking in the front door when he feels it, a wave of panic courses through his veins, the sensation like ice, freezing his blood and fusing his joints together. His dad doesn’t notice, is too busy shooing Vegas away from the cardboard box that holds the kitten Archie convinced Fred to adopt for Jug. It’s only after Fred has called his name three times does he snap back to reality, the fear does not budge, something is wrong, something is wrong with Jughead. He spares no thought or reason to why this is happening, his body moves on its own accord, racing upstairs to Jug’s room only to find it empty.

Jughead is gone. Nothing but his beanie and hearing aids to prove he was ever there. Archie pockets Jug's hearing aids and snatches up the beloved beanie, gripping it tight like a lifeline. Body under his control again, he tucks the beanie into his pocket, makes his legs carry him downstairs to the kitchen where he shouts that Jughead is gone. He doesn't waste any more time, he bolts out the front door and runs to Betty's house, pounding on the red door with a trembling fist. Alice Cooper answers with an annoyed glint in her eye, but Betty is at her side, so she acts like she cares.

“Have you seen Jughead?”

“Not since this morning, Arch” Betty replied, shoving past her mother to step out into the chilly night air. “Is everything okay?”

"He's missing. You sure you haven't seen or heard anything?" Alice looks like she knows something, but Archie isn't good at reading her, still, he pushes. "Jug took out his hearing aids, okay? He left the house, and he can't hear a thing! So, if you've seen him, please tell me."

“I’m sorry Arch, I just got back from Veronica’s-”

"-He ran out of the house about fifteen minutes ago” Alice cuts Betty off, sighing dramatically like she is doing Archie a huge favour by being a decent human. “After something in that house wailed like a banshee” she jabs a pink-tipped finger in the direction at his house, from the outside, it looks like any other in the neighbourhood, golden light spilling from the windows, serene and quiet in the night. Alice makes it sound likes it's haunted, like dreadful things happen within its walls.

“Mum, you heard him scream, saw him leave and didn’t think to go after him?” Betty demands, she is shaking with fury. “Or tell someone?”

"To be honest, I didn't know what I heard" she shrugged "it didn't sound human."

Archie knows that scream, can still feel it vibrate against his skin, rattling him to the core. “Which direction did he go in?” he doesn’t have time for this, no matter how furious he is at Alice he can’t let it overtake him, he must find Jughead.

“Towards Little Creek Road” she points to the end of the street, the direction that leads to the woods he and Jughead used to adventure in when they were young and unafraid.

He doesn't thank her, she doesn't deserve it, and there is no time. He takes off, sprinting towards the end of the street, only half aware that Betty is chasing after him. Jughead could be anywhere, he could have taken another turn and ended up at Pop's or his dads, but Archie knows he went through the woods. He knows it the way he knows the lyrics of his songs. He does not question or hesitate; he dives into the forest, the ground soggy and hazardous, sharps rocks hidden under rotting leaves and holes seemingly innocent puddles.

There is no care or concern for his safety; he knows his feet will find the right path to follow, he knows the invisible tether will lead him to Jughead. He runs, guided by something he can't understand, follows his instincts, turn left, go right, keep heading straight. He feels like he's been running for years, the sun has vanished from the sky, casting the woods into darkness. Creatures stir in the night; there is no path or lights to show him the way, there is only the sense that this is the right direction. Run, Archie, run or you might be too late, the voice screams.

He does not stop, not even when his lungs burn like they have been set ablaze, not even when his legs cramp, threatening to give in, send him crashing to the forest floor. His body will not fail him now, he pushes it beyond its limits, and something otherworldly keeps him going. A sound carries on the breeze, drifting through the swaying trees, beaconing him forwards. Light appears up ahead, filters in through the spindly branches, lighting up the undergrowth and turning the trees into towering monsters.

Archie burst through to the other side; the cold and crisp air slaps him in the face, makes him shiver. Ten feet away is Jughead, standing in the blinding light of an oncoming train. Archie runs, the world fades to a blur of colour, he lurches forward, Betty’s terrified scream pierces the air, the whistle explodes into the night, and Archie collides with Jughead, knocking him to the ground, to safety. They land in a jumbled mess of limbs on the cold, muddy ground that vibrates from the force of the train trundling by.

Archie collapses next to Jughead, gasping for much needed air, mind trying to wrap itself around what the hell just happened. It's like waking up from a bad dream; only this wasn't a dream, Jughead nearly died, again. Something lead Jug here, lured him out of the safety of the house to die on this Godforsaken train track. There is something sinister going on, a dark force is trying to take Jug away from him, but he won't allow it to.

Heaving himself up, body trembling and lungs on fire he moves to check Jug for injuries, putting his hearing aids back in when he remembers them sitting in his pocket. Betty is already hovering over them, he can’t make out her face in the darkness, but he knows she is crying, can feel his own tears making tracks down his flushed cheeks. Jughead is shaking, reaching for Archie the way he does after he wakes from a nightmare. Archie spares no time bundling him into his arms, trying to offer warmth and comfort.

"Jug what happened?" Betty asked, the voice of reason, she illuminates their mud and tear-streaked faces with the light of her cell phone. "What were you doing?”

“I didn’t know” he chokes out “I wasn’t awake.”

"You were sleepwalking?" Betty looks to Archie for confirmation; he nods in reply. "We should get you home, can you walk?"

"I think so" he tries to stand, he's trembling so violently Archie is afraid that if he lets go, he'll shatter to pieces.

He struggles to rise, Archie knows he isn’t going to like this, but he needs to get him home, so he scoops Jug up in his arms, ignoring the protests. Jughead is light, lighter than he should be, he goes silent and still in Archie’s arms as they make the long trek back. It’s not safe to go through the woods, not without that otherworldly force to show them the way, so they are forced to take the long way home. Archie’s house is lit up in red and blue when they arrive, Sheriff Keller, Mrs Cooper, FP and his dad are standing on the front porch, their bodies cast in the eerie glow of the flashing lights.

He sets Jughead down and helps him up the driveway, Betty leading the way. A thousand questions come their way, Archie ignores all of them, shoving past his dad and Sherriff Keller to get Jughead inside. He knows Betty will explain; she'll say exactly what they rehearsed on their way here. Jughead was sleepwalking, and they found him in the woods, there no was no train, Jughead was not standing on the tracks, seconds from death. She reluctantly agreed, Archie could see the wheels in her mind working, see the clogs spinning as she analysed and over analysed what they saw.

Archie knows what it looked like, but it wasn't that. It wasn't that right? Jughead had been sleepwalking, found his way to the train tracks by sheer bad luck. Archie is tired and cold, is confused and terrified. Strange things keep happening, things he can't explain, that no one can explain. How did he find Jughead in that motel and how did he find him tonight? Was it a sixth sense, was it forged the day he and Jughead became blood brothers, did it start the night they first had sex, connecting in a deep emotional, intimate way? Or was it something that could be explained by thought and reason?

Fred and FP materialise in the doorway, Archie doesn’t remember walking upstairs, doesn’t remember making it to his room where he collapsed on the floor. Jughead is shivering beside him, eyes wide with terror and Archie knows without a doubt he did not step in front of that train on purpose. _Something_ lured him there the same way _something_ led Archie to him. He had to know, he had to understand what the hell was happening to them.

"Hey, are you boys, okay?" his dad's tone is gentle, reminds Archie of when he was a child and he'd soothe him after a bad dream or when he was home sick with a fever.

“I think so” Archie looks at Jughead, he is staring vacantly into space. “Juggie?” it takes a few moments for him to respond, he snaps his gaze towards Archie.

“I d… don’t k… know” he stammers out, furiously blinking back tears.

“Jug?” FP crouches down in front of him, reaching out to touch his face, there is no colour to his skin, eyes glazed and wild with fear. “God, you’re freezing.”

“FP, take Jug and run him a bath” Fred instructs, “he needs warming up.”

“C’mon Jug” FP helps Jughead to stand, Archie doesn’t want to let him go, but he knows he has too. 

He watches FP lead Jug from the room, he sags against the bedframe, senses his dad move closer, sensing the question before it is spoken.

“What really happened, Arch?”

Archie lifts his head, every muscle aches, every inch of him is like ice. He looks his father dead in the eyes, opens his mouth and repeats the lie.

**~X~X~X~**

It’s the distant sound of water that chases away the daze, vision clearing has Jughead finding himself sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, the world returning in fragmented pieces. Images of the woods, a blinding white light, a world taken by darkness flicker in his mind. The memories are jagged, splintered pictures playing on loop. Flashing blue and red lights, terrified faces, voices demanding answers. A loud whistle, a deafening scream, the ground trembling, a teenage boy, a runaway, a misfit that could not scream and could not go free, unless they stepped into the blinding light.

Jughead's body remembers what it felt like to be shattered, to have limbs broken and ripped clean off. It can't be real; it must be a dream, a violent, vivid nightmare. Or maybe he's losing his mind the way the boy lost his. Left alone in the dark, submitted to torture and misery day after day until there was nothing left but a shell, no spark or big dreams of going to New York left or shimmer of hope to be found. Nothing but a broken mind in a body that had been violated and turned into a grotesque work of art.

These memories cannot possibly belong to him; surely, it's madness, its post-traumatic stress that is making him see things, making him chase boys down rabbit holes. He's too tired to go through this song and dance again, his mind is muddled, and in the morning light, this will all make sense. The world blurs, fades to grey, now the bathroom is filling with steam, his father is carefully removing his clothing. Tears streak a path down his grime covered face, time jumbles, he finds himself submerged in a hot bath, warm water cascading down his back, over the many scars.

Teeth chatter violently though he doesn’t feel cold, he’s too exhausted to feel much of anything. He’s barely conscious, fighting back the tendrils of darkness that strain to pull him into the nightmare world. Blinking rapidly, he focuses on the warmth of the water, the gentleness of his father’s hand. The fog ebbs, the world slowly shifting back into place, bright and real, not punctured by memories that do not belong to him.

He feels safe for the moment, body warming and grime, sweat and tears washing away. His father's touch anchors him to the world; he doesn't want to get lost in his mind again, trapped in the twisted, harrowing wonderland that is growing stronger. Reality is tricky to hold onto; it's distorted with memories and hallucinations. Where is his mind? Did he lose it in that Godforsaken motel room, was it taken by the dark night, stolen by the masked man? Was this what was left? An insane, broken mess?

"Dad?" his voice is weak, he sounds so young and afraid. He needs to end the whirling, looping thoughts, he never thought he'd wish for something to render him unconscious, but right now he'd give anything to escape into the sweet nothingness.

“You’re okay, kiddo” FP reassures, rinsing the suds from his hair. “I’ve got you.”

There's something in his father's voice that makes Jughead break; bitter tears prickle at his eyes and sobs climb up a sandpaper throat. He can't hold it together anymore; he is so afraid, so utterly terrified of the chaos unfolding in his mind. There is no more pretending; he got a few precious hours to feel normal, now it has been ripped away, it was a precious gift that he should have held tighter too. There is only horror and trauma to be found in the night, only the cold, frightening truth that something inside him has broken, is fundamentally changed.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind” he confesses, hating himself for falling apart.

“Listen to me Jug” FP cups his face with soap sodden fingers, tilting his chin up, “you are not losing your mind, you hear me? You’re going to get through this. We’re going to get you through this.”

“I feel so afraid” he turns away, hiding the tears “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“It’s okay to be afraid Juggie, but you’re safe now” FP pulls out the plug, helping Jug to stand before bundling him in a fluffy white towel that smells like Sandalwood and Archie. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, not again, I won’t let it.”

Jughead wished his father’s words were true, wished more than anything that when the sun came up tomorrow he’d be able to put this behind him, that the nightmares would stop, and the visions would cease. He was so tired, body aching from its long trek through the woods, he just wanted to crawl into bed and fall into a dreamless sleep. FP helps him to redress, leads him to his bedroom and tucks him into bed like he was eight years old and had a terrible day at school.

“I think you should take one of these tonight" FP holds out a yellow pill bottle, he must have gotten the prescription made up the other day. "I know you don't want to take them, and I won't force you,” Jughead hadn’t told his dad about his fear of taking them. He can only imagine Fred had; he imagines Fred, and his dad have probably had a lot of conversations about him in the past two weeks. “But I think it will be a good idea for tonight

He doesn't say you could have been killed tonight, you could have disappeared or been taken again, but Jughead sees the words shimmer in his tired blue eyes. So, he’ll take one, if only so tonight he can sleep without monsters and dead things haunting his dreams. So, he doesn't step out in front of another train or get lost in the woods forever. “Will you stay?” he doesn’t want to sleep alone, to wake and find the world fallen away to ash and ruin.

“Yeah, sure” he ruffles Jug’s drying locks, the way he used to when he was young, before the drinking and the fights. “I’m sure Fred will let me crash on the couch.”

“You can sleep beside me?”

“Yeah, I can do that, kiddo” he uncaps the bottle, handing Jug a little white pill “I’ll get you some water, I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Can I have a hot chocolate?”

“Sure, coming right up.”

Jughead smiles tiredly, watches his dad leave, grips the pill tightly in his hand, half afraid of it and half eager for its sweet release. Leaning back against the pillows he lets out a shaky breath; every nerve feels like it's on high alert, there is a dull ache pulsing in his temples, an echo of the trains whistle. Tired eyes struggle to stay open, he is scared to close them, terrified to open them and find the world gone again. When they flutter shut he sees a blinding white light, can hear the faintest echo of a whistle, they snap open, he gasps, feeling a panic attack sit right under his ribs.

“Juggie?”

Archie pulls him back from the brink, lifting his gaze he finds him standing in the doorway, something small and black held in one hand, his beloved beanie in the other. It takes him a moment to realise the black thing is a kitten; it's big silver eyes peer at him, eyes that are very familiar. It's the one from this morning, the one who clung to him like he was its lifeline, who meowed and looked so sad when he had to leave.

"Archie, did you get me a kitten?"

“I thought you’d like her” Archie crosses the distance between them, sitting the kitten down on the bed, she rushes to Jughead, tiny meows filling the air. “She really likes you.”

Jughead smiled, stroking her behind one tiny pointy ear. “Is your dad okay with this?”

“Yeah, I mean, it took a little convincing, but he agreed to it in the end” he smiled half-heartedly, reaching out to place the beanie on his damp hair. “Jug, are you okay? Did you see something again, is that why you went into the woods?”

He lowered his gaze, of course, Archie knew it was more than a sleepwalking episode, Archie always knew when something wasn't right with him. Especially lately. "I wasn't asleep" he confessed, chewing his bottom lip in thought. "It felt like I was in a trance, I was aware of what I was doing, but I had no control over it. I heard this sound, and I followed it into the woods."

“What kind of sound, Juggie?”

He looked up, the words balancing on the tip of his tongue, he could keep them secret, hold them hostage, but he had to tell, had to talk to someone before he lost his fucking mind "I heard a train whistle."

"That's not possible Jug; the nearest railway line is" he trails off, they both know exactly where the closest railway line is.

"It must have been in my head; it has to have been."

“What else happened?”

He should say the world changed, became a place of rot, death and terror. He should open his mouth and say there were two teenage boys, one at Pop's, one on the tracks; they looked like him, they were hurt the same way he was hurt. There was a harrowing, inhuman scream that ripped from his lungs, he should speak all these things but how could he tell any of this to Archie without sounding mad? He's questioning his own sanity when a thought rises to his mind, how did Archie find him? He left no clues; he disappeared without a trace the way he did a fortnight ago. Yet Archie found him, Archie saved him again.

"How did you find me?" he asks, heart pounding in his chest.

"I had that feeling again" he admits, no fear holding him back. "I knew you were in danger and I just followed the invisible tether" he shakes his head like he doesn't quite believe his own words. "I know it sounds crazy, and you are going to laugh at me when I say this, but I think we're soul mates. Dad told me about how there is this Japanese legend called The Red String of Fate, have you heard of it?" Jughead nods yes, and Archie continues "Right, so I think we have a red string tethering us together, and that's how I keep finding you."

Fate, a red string, something based on myth and legend, two weeks ago Jughead would have laughed at Archie, told him to check back in with reality. Now, now he’s seeing dead things, seeing fragments of stories that are not his own play out before him. He has to tell Archie, has to speak of the lost boys and the dark, hollow world.

“Arch, I’m going to tell you everything, but I need you to promise me you won’t tell our dads, please, promise me.” He reaches for his hands, gripping them a little too tight, sounding a little frantic.

“Juggie, I promise, just tell me what’s going on.”

He exhales the fear, silences the whispers telling him to hold his tongue, but he won’t keep this in any longer, something is happening to him, to both of them. “I think I’m seeing other’s like me” he speaks in a hurry, scared if he pauses he’ll stop. He tells Archie about the dead kid at Pop’s, the one who lead him to the tracks, the darkness rushing in to shape the world into a tormenting, empty place. He tells him about Jason Blossom standing in the rain, about the sound of water over the radio, the train whistle in his head that grew to such intensity that he screamed, wailed like a banshee.

“Jug, I believe you” Archie’s voice is soft, no doubt underlining his words, he truly believes him. Jughead feels a weight lift, he sags in relief, blinks back tears. “I think, maybe you’re psychic?”

"Psychic," he repeats, testing the way the way the word feels in his mouth, it didn't sound right, but he was something alright.

“Yeah, like the trauma of what happened to you has made you able to see the other side” Archie’s brow furrow, Jug knows this face well, can see the lightbulb go off above his head. “Jug, you told sheriff Keller that you thought this guy had killed before, right?”

"Yeah" he can see where Archie is going with this, can see the dots connecting right before his eyes now he has removed the wool from them. "They're his past victims" he breathes, the word sits heavy in the air, stir goose bumps on his skin. As soon as he speaks them his body vibrates, coldness surging through him, freezing him to the core, it's a sign; it's them saying ‘yes. Yes, that is who we are'. The dead are reaching out; they are appearing in diners and standing on railway lines and in rear-view mirrors. They are calling, begging to be freed, to be avenged and Jughead is the only one who can set them free.

Somethings had not been taken or broken…

Something had been awakening.


	5. The Town of Delusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for self-harm and mention of past non/con (not Jughead though)

The first day of November brings snow, it comes down in dainty flurries, getting caught in lashes, in winter coats; it's just a sprinkle, but the air is filled with the promise of a storm. The bone white sky looms over Riverdale, snow carries on the wind, landing on Jughead's beanie like an icy butterfly the moment he steps off the bus. It could just be the breeze that led the dainty flake to Jughead, but as he brushes it off, he can't help but feel a sense of foreboding awaken in his stomach.

He isn’t going to climb back into the warm safety of the bus, ride it all the way back to the corner of Archie's street than race home and hide under the covers. No, he'll not flee, not even if maybe he should, when perhaps he should really consider that this is insane. Walking up the steps to the library the conversation he had with Archie replays in his mind, Archie thought he was psychic, Jughead wasn't sure about that, but something was happening to him, he was seeing lost souls, and they needed his help. It was madness; Jughead shouldn't be here, shouldn't have spent all this morning searching for missing teenager boys in the vicinity.

But he did, and Jason Blossom is all he could find online. As he scrolled through page after page, he sensed he was being watched, could see something shimmer in the corner of his eye, flicker in the reflection of the monitor. They were here, the lost boys, Jason Blossom, they were crowding in, now they had been acknowledged they were going to grow louder, they would not let Jughead forget they were there. It's them that drove him to the library, he was meant to stay at home, his dad would be back after he finished running errands, but he could not wait.

He left the house, body moving as though he was a marionette and an ethereal force had hold of his strings. The bus arrived just as he made it to the corner, he climbed into the warmth, took a seat at the back where it was less crowded. He felt a chill run up his spin, breath coming out in plumes, had one of them been on this very bus? Had they climbed in with a bag loaded with their belongings, squeezed their way to this very seat? Had they watched the world roll slowly by, smiling, embracing their freedom only never to make it their destination of a big city or another small town where someone who loved them waited for their arrival.

He hopes to find answers at the library, they have papers going back years, and since Jason Blossom and the coming snow and Christmas is all the papers can talk about nowadays, he needs a glimpse into the past. Inside the library is warm, smells of books and coffee; a year ago, they opened a café, Jughead heads there first, ordering a double shot espresso. He couldn't sleep last night, mind whirling with possibilities, trying to piece together memories, dreams and hallucinations, trying to distinguish what is real and what is not. He never thought he'd live in a world where the illusions would be placed in the real category.

Armed with coffee, he sits down in a quiet, lonely corner and begins his search. He has drunk half his coffee when something catches his eye. It's a small write up below an article about how the road needs fixing out by Lover's Lane, the road is still treacherous, pitted with potholes and asphalt slippery as hell when it rains. No one fixed the road, and no one found Caleb Harrington, the sixteen-year-old who disappeared on the twenty-seventh of October 1996.

Looking back a few weeks, he finds only bread crumbs, Riverdale didn't care that a boy was reported missing, he was from the southside, wore skinny jeans with rips in the knees and shirts with attention-grabbing slogans printed on them. He liked eating apple pie, he had a scar on his stomach from one of his mother’s abuse ex-boyfriends, he loved reading Stephen King novels and listening to obscure music. He wore thick black rimmed glasses and one-time Arron Holt knocked them right off his face into a puddle of muddy water.

He lived with his mum who never reported him missing, she worked nights dancing in seedy bars, spent the days passed out on the couch or on the lap of some new guy who would bail in a week or a month. Caleb was a loner, a misfit; he had a friend in Greendale who was his everything, her parents were kind and said he could stay with them until he went to college in the New Year. Caleb was smart, so smart he graduated school at sixteen and caught the eye of someone willing to send him to a fancy, shiny college in New York.

Caleb never made it to New York, he never even made it to Greendale, he was taken right from where he waited for the bus on Sweetwater drive. He was reported missing by his friend, Eve Sinclair; his mother said he ran away. He could picture her, sitting on the musty, floral print lounge in a silk slip, skin shimmering with glitter and long dark hair being twirled around a fine bone finger with its gleaming purple tip as she flirted with the Sheriff. She would say he ran away, would take a puff of her cigarette or a sip of her coffee, leaving a red stain on the cracked ceramic and say, ‘he always thought he was better than me'. The smoke would billow up into the Sheriffs face; he'd take her word for it, say they'll investigate just to be sure but when they find nothing they give up and Riverdale forgets.

Jughead doesn't find all this information in the papers; it's Caleb who fills in the gaps, his story playing on the microfiche the way a movie plays through a vintage projector. Caleb can't remember anything after the twenty-seventh, the last memory he has of being alive is waiting in the cold for the bus, heart racing in his chest, body singing with excitement. Turning away from the screen that has returned to an article about football and a pie eating competition at Pop's, Jug finds Caleb sitting in the empty seat beside him.

He doesn't look the way he did in the images playing across the screen; he doesn't have a lopsided smile that was warm and friendly like Archie's, it's been stolen by ugly black, bloody threads sticking through his lips. His glasses are sitting crooked on a broken nose, his skin is ashen, face sunken from months of starvation, eyes bloodshot and swimming with so much pain, so much fear. Jughead knows without looking that there are wings carved into his back, knows there are marks hidden by the dirty, torn clothing. Caleb doesn't remember how he died, what happened to him in the days or months before but Jughead's body feels the phantom aches.

He breathes in and feels a broken rib, two, three, more breaking under a heavy boot. There is a deep burning in his gut, a ravenous hunger awakening and a mighty thirst that has him reaching for his coffee, but he can't feel it wet his tongue, quench his thirst. He feels fingers break and nails rip off, feels hands on his skin, feels pain deep inside, in places he doesn't want to feel pain, but he knows what it means. Unbearable pain burst to life on his back; it's like there is an invisible knife slicing into him, reopening the wounds. Bile rises in his throat without warning, he runs to the nearest bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet just in time to empty what little he ate.

Gagging and sputtering he tries desperately to rid himself of the memories that are not his own. This was going to be his fate; these things would have happened to him if Archie didn’t rescue him. Falling backwards, back colliding painfully with the stall wall he lets out a weak sob. He feels sick to his very core, trembling as the phantom pain slowly fades from his body, escaping through his mouth like thick black smoke, leaving the taste of copper and ash.

Caleb Harrington suffered immensely before he died, just as the others only he does not yet know their stories, they seem less willing to share. He is alone in the stall; they have not followed him in. The Lost Boys, the misfits and ones quickly forgotten if they don't have someone like Archie to notice they are gone. They are stolen in the dead of the night, in the late afternoon waiting on a bench for the bus that is running late.

Later Jughead would learn they did not all run away; some had tried, Caleb had saved and packed his favourite things, didn't say goodbye and walked out the door, on his way to a place where he would be safe and loved. His friend, Eve Sinclair, reported him missing, which meant she cared, which meant she might have answers. Eve was eighteen at the time, had a piercing in her right nostril and drove a stick-shift, she was Caleb 's best friend, but she was also something more.

She'd be in her forties now, she probably moved away, got married and had kids after travelling the world the way she and Caleb always talked about. Jughead doesn't know Caleb or Eve, only shared a glimpse of their lives and yet Jughead knows by the look in their eyes that they were more than friends. It was in the space between them, the electric currents in the air, it was shining in their eyes, as bright as the stars in the night sky. He's seen that chemistry before, felt it brewing between him and Archie long before they kissed on that hot summers day. It's time to go, to heave himself off this dirty floor, rinse his mouth and keep looking. There are more teenagers to be discovered, more untold stories to experience and a murderer to be found.

**~X~X~X~**

The cafeteria was overcrowded today; the frigid winds had forced everyone inside; the quad was now a patchwork of white and brown. Archie sat with Kevin, Betty and Veronica, absentmindedly picking at his food, mind circling back to Jughead. In the morning light, it seems crazy that they were talking about ghosts, questioning whether Jughead could be psychic, believing the dead had come out to play. He couldn't ignore the signs though; Jug had too many strange encounters for it to be post-traumatic stress.

Archie sensed there was something different about Jug the moment he stepped into that hospital room; there was an electric charge in the air, his skin was too cold, and his scream had been inhuman. It started that very moment, Jug opened his mouth, and with that scream something awoke, seeping through his bloodstream like a poison, settling in his lungs, making a home in his heart. It started that day, spreading and growing until it was strong enough to make itself known; revealing itself in the form of Jason Blossom.

Jason Blossom was dead, body decomposing in Sweetwater River, in the spring someone might find his bones, a hand might wash ashore and terrify some kids skinny dipping in the dark. Cheryl is sitting three tables away, drinking coffee and talking to Josie, she has no idea where her brother is, Archie can see how much it's hurting her but if he went over and told her she wouldn't believe him. No one would, not without proof. Archie doesn't know how they are going to prove any of this; Sheriff Keller didn't even seem to think the man who hurt Jughead had done it before. They know better, his past victims are coming out of the woodwork.

“Archie, earth to Archie.”

Archie snapped to attention; Veronica was endeavouring to get his attention, "Sorry, Ronnie, I was lost in thought."

"I heard about last night" Kevin interjected "Poor Jughead, I used to sleepwalk as a kid, I got stuck in a closet once. Which now I think of it was probably a foreshadowing of my future."

“I used to get night terrors, so my mum sent me to therapy” Veronica shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee like it was nothing.

"That's extreme" Kevin exclaimed, "you were a kid, you probably just saw something scary on TV."

"What Jughead is experiencing is different" Archie cut in, tone heated. "This isn't sleepwalking into closets or having bad dreams from a scary movie."

"Hey, Arch, we know" Betty touched his arm, an attempt to pacify him. "I was there last night, it was terrifying, and if you didn't shove him out of the way, he could have been killed."

"Killed?" Veronica demanded, "you said he got lost in the woods, what exactly happened."

"Nothing, Ronnie" he glared at Betty, hoping it conveyed his message clearly. They talked about this; they weren't going to mention Jughead was standing on the tracks, in the line of an oncoming train. It wasn’t his fault; he’d been led by a phantom revealing his last tragic moments before death.

"I'm sorry Archie, but I think we should tell someone" Betty reasoned. "Juggie could have been killed, and we're just keeping the fact he was standing in front of a train a secret? How would FP feel if something happened to Jughead because we didn't tell anyone?"

"I get it, he's not safe right now, but something is going on that you don't understand." He knows Betty is coming from the right place, that she is probably right, and they should tell FP, but he can't fix this, sleeping pills and therapy won't make this stop. The only way to save Jug is to figure out who tortured him, who killed the others, then the sleepwalking and hallucinations will end. Everything else is a distraction, is a band-aid on a gaping wound. He can't tell Betty any of this; she won't believe him, she'll want him to stop encouraging Jug to chase after ghosts and the monster who hurt him.

“Help me understand, Archie,” she pleaded “talk to us, please.”

“I can’t” he rose, an urge to run building in his chest, spreading through his legs like an itch. “I’ll see you in class.”

He turned on his heel, ignoring the voices calling him back, he snuck out of the cafeteria and made his way to the boy's bathroom where he leant against the graffiti-covered wall. Fishing his cell phone from his jacket pocket, he checked to see if there were any messages from Jug, finding none he decided to give him a call. Jughead picked up on the third ring, voice in a low whisper, echoing slightly but the bathroom always made that happen.

“Why are you whispering?”

“I’m at the library” he replied, “I found another one.”

“Another lost boy?”

"No, another Pokémon, of course, a lost boy."

A smile tugged at Archie's lip; he'd missed Jug's sarcasm, his sardonic humour and above all he longed to hear Jug's laugh. They might have an answer to the hallucinations, but that doesn't mean Jughead still isn't suffering from post-traumatic stress, he went through unimaginable pain, _he went through hell_ , and he's not going to get over that easily. It's going to take time; this is just a detour, once this, whatever the hell this is, is over Jughead will have to heal, he'll need to recover. At least he still has that fire, the spark that drew Archie to him all those years ago.

“Did he appear, or did you find him?”

“I found an article in a paper from 1996 then he appeared and shared his story with me” he sounds tired, a little unsteady.

"Are you okay, Jug?" Archie started pacing the length of the room, sneakers making the faintest noise against the tiled floor.

"Yeah, just a little freaked out, you know" Archie could practically hear the shrug, "Like this is real, I found proof, and I'm still looking, and I think, _I know_ I’m going to find more.”

"I could ask Kevin to question his dad?" he suggested, "if anyone went missing he'd know."

"You'd think so" Jughead paused, Archie waited for him to continue. "But I'd rather not tell anyone; this is just between us."

"Of course," Archie nodded to himself, remembering how at the end of summer they were sneaking around, keeping their relationship on the down low until they were ready for people to know. Jughead used to shimmy in his window at late night; they'd take FPs pick-up to a secluded place by Sweetwater river and make out under the stars. Their first time was out by the calm waters, the stars glittering bright above them as they fumbled and tumbled in the bed of the rusty old truck. He misses that, everything had been so exciting, so perfect, not even the smallest hint of the darkness to come.

Archie wants to make love to Jug; he misses sex and its selfish of him. Jughead had been hurt in ways he'd never understand, he was ashamed of his scars and wouldn't let Archie see him naked, especially his back. Archie would always love him; he wanted to kiss the damaged skin, kiss away the pain and memories left in their wake. Jug needed time and Archie would give it to him without hesitation; he’d just have to make do with cold showers. There were bigger things at work, more important things to be doing and Jughead's mental health came above everything. He'd wait, he'd shower Jug with love, prove to him he'd never find his scars repulsive,

"I think I need to widen my search" Jughead is saying "Maybe some of them went missing from Greendale or Rosewood? I think everything leads back here, but that doesn't mean everyone came from here."

“Yeah, good call.”

“Shit.”

“What?” he asked, feeling a trickle of fear.

"My dad's going to be home soon, and if I'm not there, he’ll freak out."

“You went to the library by yourself?” Archie demanded. “Jug, what if something happens to you? The guy who did this is still out there! Or you could have another episode? I saved you from being run over by a train just last night.”

"Archie, I'm fine" his tone is light, reassuring but it does little to make Archie feel better. "There are plenty of people here, and most of them are too frail to lift a feather let alone me.”

"Jughead" Archie's tone was a warning, said ‘I am being serious, I am worried for you,' and Jug heard the unspoken words loud and clear.

"I'll be careful" he promised, "I'm leaving now, and I will text you the moment I get in the door."

“You better” he sagged against the wall, sighing heavily “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Please be safe.”

“I will be” his words are soft, brimming with adoration “Hey, I’m out of data but can you do me a favour?”

"Sure, I've got class in five, but it's with Mr Fitz so I'd rather" he trails off, he was going to say something like get my teeth pulled out or suffer some form of horrible mutilation, but after what happened to Jug it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

"Yeah, he's certainly not going to win any personality contests," he says without missing a beat. "Anyway, can you search local suicides, ones involving trains?"

“You ask me to do the sweetest things” he teases, falling back into step.

“You’re truly the world’s greatest boyfriend” he could hear the smile in Jughead’s voice “Text me what you find, and I’ll read it when I get home, my bus is here so I’ll see you tonight.”

“Text me when you get home” he repeated, not caring that he was playing the overprotective boyfriend.

“Yes dear.”

Archie chuckled, bathing in the moment, the world might be changing, it might have become a cruel and dark place, but they were still the same, and as long as they have each other they'll get through this.

**~X~X~X~**

It's started snowing again when Jughead gets off the bus, the ground glistening in white, ice crunching under booted feet. To anyone peering out from behind their curtains or passing by in the warmth of their car; they'd see a lone boy walking along the pavement, huddled in his plaid winter coat and threadbare jumper. Jughead isn't alone though; he hears footsteps behind him, snow crunching underneath shoes that are not there. Caleb has followed him home; his trust has drawn the others out of hiding, they linger in the back, still holding tight to their stories.

Jughead wants them to share; there is a bond forming, forged in blood and marked by the scars marring their bodies. Caleb was too trusting; it's what got him killed, why he climbed into the passenger side of a burgundy or brown station wagon. He doesn't remember what the driver looked like, but he offered him hot cocoa, and since his joints were fused together from the cold and his hands had turned blue and gone numb he drank it greedily. He doesn't want to remember what came after, the other two, whoever they are, Jughead senses their stories will be far more violent.

Caleb has an empty memory and yet back in the library Jughead's body recalled everything done to him. The wings on his back still ache, the scars littering his body tingle uncomfortably. Quickening his stride Jughead leaves the phantom pain behind, shoves it into the neighbour's skeleton remains of a rose bush and forces the sickness turning in his stomach to the ground below. The Andrew's house is a bright beacon in the distance, the yellow paint like sunshine, promising warmth and affection. Standing next to it, as bone white as the winter sky, is the Cooper's grand home, in the driveway is Alice Cooper's car and Jughead's feet are pulling him that direction, and before he knows it, he is knocking at the door.

Alice is one of Jughead’s least favourite people, especially after she printed his story in her paper without his permission. She didn’t have the real story, only her twisted version and snippets of information taken from bribed mouths. She had half a picture, painting a story that made the town feel safe, this wouldn’t happen to their well-behaved, golden kids as long as they didn’t walk the streets late at night, as long as they stayed preppy and bright and didn’t look into the darkness. Trouble finds trouble, she wrote, placing all the blame on Jughead, who didn’t belong here on the north side.

But Alice knows things, has ears and eyes everywhere and there must be a reason he was lead to her door. She takes her time to answer when she does she is surprised, Jug takes a small bit of satisfaction at that. It takes a little convincing to get inside, he plays her game, offering her insight into the night of his abduction if she'll answer some questions. Alice hordes information; loves having morsels of it to stuff into the pockets of her aprons or bury deep in her purse to lord over people whenever she so desires.

"So Jughead" her tone is sweet, she places a freshly baked slice of apple pie with a side of ice cream onto the table before him, she looks the part of the Stepford wife, but Jughead can see the cold calculation in her eyes. "What is it you wish to know?"

He takes a mouthful of pie, he may be seeking answers, but he'll choose his words carefully, he doesn't trust Alice one bit, and he won't let anything he doesn't wish for her to know slip. "You know a lot about this town, know it's dark corners and juicy secrets better than anyone, and I want to know if anything like this has happened before."

"This town has its share of dangerous and shady characters but what happened to you is not something I've seen before." She reaches for him; he allows her to rest her hand on his arm, giving her the delusion he is buying the false sympathy in her words. "You have been so brave Jughead; I can't imagine what you've been going through, what your poor father is going through and having Sheriff Keller throw the casefile away like it's nothing, well that's atrocious."

 “What do you mean?” He tried to keep the hitch out of his voice, doesn’t want her to know the words have struck a chord. Had Keller really tossed his case aside, tucked it away with all the other unsolved ones where it will sit for years, gathering dust and cobwebs. Did he mean so little to this town?

"Keller isn't looking for the man who hurt you" she replied promptly, pink-tipped nails tightening on his arm in a mockery of comfort. "The Blossom's want all the resources going towards Jason, and well, their good favour will keep Keller in a job."

Of course, Jason Blossom was getting all the attention. He wanted to say they won't find him, not until spring, maybe not even then. He is a decomposing, bloated corpse at the bottom of Sweetwater River. He is gone, Jughead is still alive, and the man who did this to him is still out there, and he could return for him. He could take someone else. He's going to take someone else, Jughead has proof of that, has the evidence standing behind him, but Alice cannot see them, cannot feel their rage or pain or how cold they have become from years of living in the shadows.

“Think, Alice! Have there been any missing boys in the last few years?” He is shaking, struggling to stay in control. “What about in 1996, a sixteen-year-old boy from the south side went missing, is there anything similar that I can’t find in the papers or online?”

"Jughead, lots of people go ‘missing' from Riverdale, it's called runaways, and this town is known for them" she shrugged it off, just like everyone else did. "If there was a write up in every paper about every runaway teenager there would be no room for the real news."

"But this town likes to pretend, everyone draws their curtains and looks the other way while the streets run red" he feels ice prickle in his veins, a swelling rage burns in the pit of his stomach. This town does not care for its lost youth; it does not mourn them or ponder where they have gone, it moves on. Another day, another missing kid, unless that kid is Jason Blossom, who has a family that owns this town, that can make the smaller cases vanish into thin air. The Blossom's don't care that Jughead was tortured, that he was going to be another victim of a killer that has been slipping through the cracks for God knows how long.

"You're right, this town holds tight to its secrets, it kills for them" she leans forward, hand gripping his wrist in a silent threat or maybe she cares just enough for it to be a warning. "I remember reading about that boy from 1996, he was from the south side, and his mother said he ran away, no one really looked for him, but if something did happen, something dark and twisted then I know some people would hide it. Silence is bought, Jughead, silence is something this town is very good at. They'd rather look the other way then take one second to consider they might not be as safe as they think."

“Then help me make them feel unsafe, help me make the skeletons fall out of the closet.”

"Say I print your story, tell Riverdale that maybe their children aren't as safe as they think, then what?" She takes a sip of her coffee, thinking it over. "Sheriff Keller is forced to find a killer that could be long gone or could be too clever for the likes of him? People are afraid for a few weeks, but it will fade, they will pull the wool back over their eyes."

He bites back the rage, the bitter tears “You printed my story before.”

"I told the town what it needed to hear" she explained softly, "but I am willing to tell it again if that's what you want?"

He doesn't want to spread fear, to make this town feel as afraid as he does. He wants this town to see the devils walking among them, see the shadowy corners and the ugliness Jughead has always been able to see. But this isn't the way, the only way to show the people is to pull back the curtains and let the darkness rush in. There are missing boys that have been ignored, that had their stories buried under brighter things, and Jughead is the only one who can make sure they are heard. They are trapped in the void, screams muffled by threads, forgotten by this town but soon everyone will know, he will set their stories free.

“I don’t want to spread fear” he takes another bite of apple pie even though it’s gone cold and the ice cream melted, he eats for Caleb, who’ll never get the chance to have a slice again. “Thank you for the pie, Alice, I should be going now.”

“Not so fast” she holds up a finger, ordering him to stay put, “I might not be printing this article, but I still have questions.”

“I don’t remember anything” he doesn’t, not really, it’s all distorted, a scattered section of memories in the shape of jigsaw pieces that he is too afraid to put together.

“You must remember something” she pressed, there is a twitch, smile faltering.

“He wore a white mask” he replied blankly.

She looks like she is going to ask for more details when a pounding at the door startles them. Jughead uses this as his cue to escape; he is fleeing from the dining room before she can dig her pretty pink nails in further. The door swings open, he was going to push past and make his way home, but when he finds his father standing on the other side, he freezes. He forgot to keep an eye on the time when FP wasn't home Jughead assumed he wouldn't show up at all. He was used to his dad breaking promises, disappearing for days at a time only to stumble home smelling of booze and looking years older than when he left.

“FP, what a pleasant surprise” Alice’s tone is liquid honey with an underlining of poison.

"Can't say the same" he said brusquely, gripping Jughead's arm and pulling him outside. "Why is my son in your house?"

“I saw he was home alone, so I invited him over, I thought he could use a motherly figure to talk too” she smiled innocently “that’s all.”

“Stay away from us Alice” FP orders, dragging Jughead back towards Archie’s house, grip painful.

“Dad, stop, you’re hurting me” Jughead tugs his arm free the moment they are inside.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, “After what she wrote I can’t believe you’d go over there.”

"If Alice didn't write about it someone else would have" he doesn't want his dad to know he was seeking information, his body is throbbing, mind whirling. "She apologised and gave me some pie; it's not a big deal."

“That woman always has ulterior motives, Jughead” he snapped “don’t be so foolish to think she cares about your wellbeing.”

"I know that" he shouted, took a step back and expelled the anger from his bloodstream. "I'm tired, and my back hurts like hell, can I please go lie down?"

FP softened, though Jughead could tell this conversation wasn't over "don't go over there again Jughead" his tone is final if he disobeys he won't be getting off scot-free.

"I won't." Alice wasn't any of any help. If she had stories to tell she hadn't been willing to share or maybe she was just as blind as the rest, to the people like him at least. If Jughead wanted this town to remember those who were lost, who were taken, then he is going to have to uncover every dirty secret, every blood-soaked lie. But to do that he has to know everyone's story, he needs their names, the days they were taken, the locations.

Stopping under the attic door his eyes travel up, arm already reaching for the string. He needs to pour everything he knows and has seen out into the open so that he can view it differently, and another pair of eyes wouldn't go astray. When he and Archie were hunting around for Halloween decorations a few weeks ago, he saw a corkboard leaning against a pile of stacked up boxes, years' worth of dust coating the wooden frame like snow. Climbing up the ladder feels more difficult than it should, the scars on his back throbs, pulling with each movement. Are the lost boys doing this to him? is their pain seeping into his skin, making him feel sluggish and weak.

Pushing on, he strides towards the corkboard, picking up the loose hem of a sheet that is thrown over some boxes to clean away the dust. There should be some tacks in Archie's room; he'll have to hook the printer up to his laptop as well. On the way down, he remembers he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket while he was talking to Alice, no doubt Archie checking to see if he made it home safely since he forgot to text him. Once he's taken some Tylenol he'll reply and see how Archie’s research is going, this town can hold tight to its secrets, can bury them deep, but Jughead will uncover them.

He is not alone in this; the lost boys will guide him, take control of his body to move him in the right direction, share memories and stories, so he knows exactly what to look for. Riverdale is a town of delusion, of blind fools living in a wonderland. There is darkness here; it's seeped into the foundations, its poisoned the water and floats through the air, settling in lungs, blackening hearts. The dark thoughts overcome him, he staggers into the bathroom on unsteady feet, feeling strange and disconnected.

He swallows two Tylenol, a trembling hand grips tight to the porcelain basin as the other swings the cabinet door shut. He feels like he is on the verge of a panic attack, there is a lump in his throat and a twist in his gut. He breathes in and out, trying to calm the pounding of his heart, the sense of fear coursing through his veins like ice. Eyes well with tears as a sharp stinging sensation draws Jughead's attention to his right arm; blood seeps through the material.

Rolling the sleeve back, he discovers the wounds reopening, fresh crimson blood spilling out, leaking onto the porcelain sink in perfect circles. Compelled to look up his eyes catch two amber orbs gazing back at him through the glass of the cabinet mirror, they shimmer with self-loathing, glisten with tears that trickle down his face like shards of glass. The boy in the mirror, trapped in a world where there is no sun or warmth, is Wren Price and his pain, his misery is choking Jughead. He can't help crying out as more wounds open on his forearm; there are dozens of scars scattered from his wrist to his elbow, each the width of a steel razor blade.

He wants to feel pain, Wren wants to hurt so he can feel alive, but that doesn’t work now so now he just wants to die, and Jughead is hooked into him, can feel the desire to end it all swell within him. He is reaching for Archie's razor, gripping it with trembling hands, fighting and yet somehow not fighting the urge to use it. Something pulls him back, a soft barely there sound that has him looking away, the connection splintering. In the doorway is the black kitten Archie gifted him, her two silver eyes stare up at him, she meows again, a dainty squeak that has him expelling the darkness from his lungs.

Looking back in the mirror he finds his own eyes staring back, wide and glistening with terror and tears. The blood has vanished from his arm; it was never there in the first place. He sags against the sink, gagging, salty tears trickling onto the same spots where the blood had been. Standing up Jug forces himself to walk away, to pick up the sweet little kitten in the doorway and hug her. She saved him, his little Luna, who chose him over the shiny, bright family that were seeking her attention.

“Jug?”

He startled, FP had appeared outside in the hallway “Do you want some lunch?”

"Ah, no, I'm okay, thanks" he wipes at his face with the sleeve of his sweater, hoping his dad won't mention the tears drying on his cheeks.

“Have you eaten, besides the poison pie Alice fed you?" Anger seeps into his words, Jughead winces, lowering his gaze in shame.

"I had breakfast" he had coffee and a slice of toast with peanut butter, but his stomach feels uneasy like he hasn't quite settled back into his skin. His heart aches for Wren; Jughead has been depressed in the past, had cried himself to sleep more nights then any sixteen-year-old should, but he's never self-harmed. Wren's story is one of self-loathing and loneliness, but something made him stop, he changed his mind and decided to live on, only to be taken. There is a sense that something good happened, that light chased away the darkness and sent him running towards something better.

“I’ll make you a sandwich” FP announced, making up Jug’s mind for him “You go lie down, I’ll bring it up to you, okay?”

"Okay, thanks, dad." He steps forward, bringing him in for a hug, feeling Luna purr softly between them. FP may not be the perfect father, but he loves him unconditionally and would do anything for him and after what he just felt he wants to be comforted, to know he is loved.

“You sure you’re okay Jug?” FP asked, wrapping his arms carefully around Jughead’s narrow waist, avoiding the heavily scarred areas.

He didn't really have a reassuring answer for his dad, because he wasn't okay, not really. The dead had come out to play and were hiding just out of sight; their lives stolen by someone who lives in this town. He could be sitting across the street in his home, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee, he could be walking into Pop's, a friendly smile on his face and no one would see the evil within. He wasn't okay, wasn't going to be okay until this was over, and the lost boys were set free.

**~X~X~X~**

Jughead is tired and moody as he makes his way through the bustling hallway of Riverdale High, shoving past peers who keep looking his way. Everyone seems to know what happened at Pop's and his adventure into the woods has reached them as well, wherever he goes there are whispers, are curious eyes. He slams the locker door shut, startling a few first-year students who are lingering by, he glares at them, and they scurry away. Archie touches his arm, steady fingers travelling down to lace through his trembling ones. Jughead expels the anger in a shaky breath, follows in Archie's stride as he leads them to the rec room to meet the girls before class.

He doesn't want to waste the day doing science experiments, English papers and solving maths problems when he could be looking for more missing boys. He spent yesterday afternoon and well into the evening researching missing teenagers in Riverdale and the neighbouring towns. Like Alice had said, there are many, some are found and returned home, some appear months or years later in big cities with edgy haircuts and drug addictions. Some like Caleb and Wren are never found, they are simply gone, like smoke evaporating in the sky.

Wren Price went missing from Maple Falls in mid-November seven years ago, the article said he left town with his friend Laurel Winters sometime between the eighteenth and the twentieth. Laurel’s parents were overseas at the time and Wren’s father being the town sheriff never reported him missing. It wasn’t until Laurel was found nearly frozen to death by a local ranger that the truth came out. Laurel and Wren had runaway, they bought a second-hand car with cash stolen from her neglective-workaholic parents and mapped a straight line to freedom only to have their dreams shattered when a blizzard rolled in.

They were on the very edge of Riverdale when the car crashed, falling down an embankment and crashing into a tree. Laurel escaped severe injury, Wren had been unconscious, and she saw no other option but to leave him and seek help. By the time help arrived Wren was gone, no footsteps to show which direction he could have gone in, no signs of a struggle, he was gone and eventually, someone called off the search and Wren Price was presumed dead. In the spring, when the snow thawed, and no body was found a funeral was held and the people of Maple Falls kept on going with their lives.

Wren didn't get to be so lucky, somehow while the storm raged on and he lay unconscious in the driver seat a monster found him and took him as his own. Jughead doesn't have Wren's story, not the one seen from his eyes, the one the papers could never tell. He hasn't resurfaced since last night, Jug can feel them in the back of his mind, like an old memory that sits nestled in cobwebs waiting for a trigger to bring it out to play. He must be patient.

Jug is tired, eyes sore and red from hours spent staring at the glowing screen of his laptop, he didn't find much more on Caleb Harrington. Riverdale liked to hide the darkness under cute fluff pieces, distract them with sweets while the poison slowly trickled through the town. Archie found no suicidal deaths related to train accidents, but Jughead knows the lost boy was killed by a train, he felt his body break like the memory was his own. Someone was driving that train, someone killed a boy and never told a soul. He thinks back the conversation with Alice, how she said people would kill for their secrets, and he couldn't help but wonder had someone killed for this secret? Or was their silence bought?

“Hey boys, come sit” Veronica’s cheerful smile beamed at them from across the room, she was perched daintily on the edge of the armchair Betty was sitting on.

"It's good to see you, Jug," Kevin said from his place on the lounge where Archie was leading them to sit.

"Yeah, good to be back" he slipped into the role perfectly, he didn't want to give way to his fears, reveal the anxiety setting just below the surface. Underneath everything he is afraid; the crowded, noisy room setting him on edge. He sits next to Archie, a little closer than normal, seeking the warmth radiating from his boyfriend's body, needing the comfort of his touch. "What have I missed?"

 “Nothing at all” Veronica answered, “it’s been pretty dull around here lately.”

“Oh, so the school isn’t talking about me?” He coloured his words with humour, needing them to believe he was okay, that the Jughead they remembered had returned to them when in truth he was far from the boy who sat in this very spot a little over two weeks ago.

"Just ignore them, Jug," Betty said, offering him a sympathetic smile. “They will eventually get bored or find something else to talk to about."

"Well, maybe a distraction is key" Cheryl materialised, dressed to kill in a suede thigh-high boots and her trademark red and black combo. "My parents are going away this weekend, and since I have Thornhill Manor to myself, I am throwing a winter wonderland bash to celebrate the cold season. You are all invited, so I hope to you see you there." She stuttered towards Jughead, for one heartbeat of a moment her soft features morphed into a chiselled jaw, delicate nose extending and irises fading to white, hair shortening to fiery red locks that were soaked and stuck to a pale forehead, trying to conceal a gaping hole.

“Especially you Jughead,” Jason Blossom’s face morphs back into Cheryl’s, her red lips quirk into a smile that makes him feel nervous for a reason he doesn’t understand. Without a goodbye she twirled around on three-inch heels, red hair fanning out like hungry flames, and walked back to her group of friends.

"Well that was weird" Kevin muttered, "she doesn't even like us."

"Well, I'm not going" Betty declared, zipping up her backpack as the first bell rang. "C'mon V, let’s go."

Jughead didn't notice Betty and Veronica leave, didn't hear the second bell chime or feel Archie tug him to his feet and lead him towards their first class of the day. He kept seeing Jason's Blossom's face, thinking how even though his eyes had gone white he could still see a desperate plea in them, the urge to be helped. Was Jason connected to the others or was he just another lost soul who this town had taken? Each boy had different ways to share their stories, Caleb's had been the most powerful, and he wonders if it's because he's been dead the longest. Perhaps the longer they are trapped in limbo or whatever hell they have been cast into, the more influential they become.

Jughead's hand slips from Archie's, he squeezes through the crowd and follows the sound of running water up to the second floors boy's bathroom. Stopping at the door he listens, hears the water splash onto titled floors, the groan of the old rusty pipes, a trembling hand pushes the door open, and he steps into the other side. The door swings shut, surrounding him in near darkness, the only source of light is the filtering in through the grim covered windows.

The floor is soaked, water pools around the soles of his boots, rising steadily. There is no warmth to be found here; the mirrors have frosted over with ice, plumes of breath hover before Jughead's face. He tries to stop the running water, but the faucets won't budge, the water is creeping up over his ankles, freezing him in place. Something in the mirror catches his eye, the glass ripples, something moves beneath the silver surface, trying to escape. Jughead waits with baited breath, trying to keep the fear at bay, to keep his pounding heart from bursting free of his chest.

It ripples again; Jughead watches words form in the frost, shivering violently as the water laps at his knees, he can't feel his feet anymore. The letters spell out _FIND ME_ , and Jughead wants to ask, find who? Is it Jason or Wren or Caleb or the other boy who hasn't shared his name? Is it someone new? Another lost boy or just another lost soul. There are too many loose ends, not enough information to answer the questions racing through his head. The water is rising, someone is pounding at the door, but they won’t be able to open it against the weight of the water.

Light pours into the room, scattering the darkness, the message in the mirror vanishes, the water evaporates leaving him dry as a bone. Archie is reaching for him, pulling him back to the world. Jug collapses against his side, shuddering from the cold that has seeped into his bones. Archie is warm and strong against his fragile frame, he holds tight to him, fighting the rising panic. He is safe, they won’t hurt him, they just want help, they just want to be found.

“Are you okay Juggie?”

“Yeah” he isn’t, he feels weak, feels like his lungs are full of water “let’s just go to class.”

Archie doesn't press the matter, though Jughead can see he will bring it up later. Together they leave the room, Jughead gives the mirror one last look, finding only the stall door reflected there he takes Archie's hand and heads to class.


	6. A Night in The Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full chapter up :)

It's almost like history repeating, the radio warns of a snow storm rolling in late Saturday evening, they are told to stay indoors, the roads will be treacherous, and the winds could bring down power lines. The clouds loom in the distance, ominous and promising chaos. It doesn't stop the teenagers from piling into their friend's cars and making the long drive to Thornhill Manor, where Cheryl has promised a roaring fire and top-shelf liquor to chase away the chill. It's all anyone's been talking about, the party to end all parties and as the clock strikes six and darkness takes over Riverdale, Jughead climbs into the driver's seat of Fred's truck and starts the engine, it sputters to life, and maybe that’s a sign telling them to stay.

But he isn’t going to get another opportunity to explore the gothic halls of Thornhill Manor; there will be no second chances to sneak into Jason Blossom’s bedroom and rifle through his things in search of clues. He needs to find out how Jason fits into everything. He isn’t like Caleb or Wren who ran away with hope burning brightly in their chests and the promise of better things luring them away from their safe little towns. He isn’t like Alex Landen, who appeared between fifth and six periods on Wednesday, standing still among the bustling bodies, skin too pale for the living, body broken and bent in gruesome angles.

Alex blinked out of existence and didn’t reappear until later that evening when Jughead was at Pop’s with Archie and their dads. He took the first sip of his chocolate milkshake, and a dizzy spell overcame him. For a few terrifying moments, he thought he’d been drugged, that _he_ was here, lurking somewhere in the back or sitting in the booth across the way and _he’d_ slipped something into his drink. He remembers grabbing Archie’s arm, hard enough to leave red marks and half circles from blunt nails, the world wilted and tilted around him, melting into a place of loud music and dull lighting.

Looking to his right he found Alex Landen; cheeks coloured a rosy pink, eyes glistening and pupils dilating as the drug coursed through his veins. He was sitting in the back of some seedy bar, waiting for his father to finish hustling, sipping a coke and eating stale peanuts that Trish always gave to him because she felt sorry for him. No one noticed a strange man lead him out the back exit; they had been too busy defusing a fight his father had started. There are no cameras to catch Alex's disappearing act; it had occurred in the middle of the night so if anyone did see anything they would have been too drunk to remember.

The story ends the same as the others, he was looked for but eventually they stopped, no one cared enough to carry on the search. Alex remembers what happens next, he shares glimpses of pain and suffering, snapshots of frayed memories that are crimson and violent. Alex doesn't know where he was held captive or how much time passed but unspeakable things happened to him, things that have Jughead rushing to the bathroom at Pop’s to empty the contents of his stomach. Jug's body hurts in ways he never thought it could. Tylenol doesn't touch the pain because it is not his, it belongs to Alex who had his fingers broken, and nails ripped clean off, who was starved and beaten and forced to do unspeakable things.

Jughead feels like he is ready to unravel, their pain is immense, and the misery is suffocating, but he finds strength in Archie, in Caleb who doesn't remember, not the way Wren and Alex do. Wren had it the worst, he lost two fingers for trying to escape and its funny how for months he wanted to die, he hurt himself just to feel alive and now he was here in the dark, in constant pain and he wanted to live. He didn't want to leave Laurel alone; he wanted the chance to grow up, go to college and make a better life for himself. Just like they planned.

He didn't get to grow up. He was killed three months after he was captured, his captor, _The Collector_ as Jug liked to call him, had grown bored, and one day he snapped his neck like it was nothing, and everything went dark until Jughead lured him out of the darkness with his scream. Alex was in the dark for two and half months when he managed to escape, limped through the woods in search of help, but he somehow ended up by the train tracks, and when he saw the light speeding towards him he felt the urge to survive evaporate. His body and face were mangled, his dreams of Broadway shattered, destroyed by sharp knives and violent fists, and really what did he have to live for? He jumped, and the abyss swallowed him.

Jughead doesn’t think The Collector took Jason, he doesn’t fit the profile, but he is gone, is reaching out for help and Jug must reach back. Thornhill Manor sits nestled in the woods, winding roads leading to the extravagant front gates and in the dark, with the snow coming down in glistening white shards it would be easy to get lost. Archie lied to his dad for them, said they were going to have a sleepover at Veronica’s with Betty and since they would be at Veronica’s long before the storm rolled in he let them go. Jug hates making Archie lie for them, has been so understanding, so compassionate and helping him to create a list of potential victims

This afternoon they had been lying on the bed, surrounded by books, old newspaper clippings and printed out posters of missing kids. There was a corkboard tucked away in the back of Jughead's closet, stuck to the frame and hidden from view by clothing. It was covered in missing posters and article write-ups, red string connecting Wren to Alex to Caleb. Jason sat to the side alone, missing, _gone_ , but he didn’t belong in the lost boy cluster.

Jughead had been so tired, teetering dangerously close to sleep as he sunk into the softness of the mattress and soaked in the warmth from Archie. Archie had been murmuring things to him, running nimble fingers up his thigh, teasing the waistband of his jeans when he mumbled something Jughead never wanted to be called again. The words fell off his clumsy tongue, settled in the air with all the power of a hurricane, Jughead tensed, blood turning to ice. _Angel_ , Archie called him an angel, and he felt the wings on his back burn, felt a forgotten memory overcome him.

Images flickered in his mind, fragmented memories slotting together to create a snippet of horror. He was in that Godforsaken motel, tied to the table, struggling to grasp hold of reality as the drug rippled through his system. Coldness seeped deep into his bones, a shapeless dark mass hovered over him, touching him, removing his clothing with a tenderness that made him sick. Latex gloves skimmed over his skin, caressing his bare thighs, running over his exposed chest. He tried to say stop, tried to cry out, but his lips had already been stitched shut, and the man's hand kept touching his naked flesh, a deep voice whispered how beautiful he was, how he would make the perfect angel to add to his collection.

Jughead recoils violently from the memory, flying away from Archie's touch in such haste he fell to the floor. It took ten minutes to calm down, Archie was guilt-ridden, trying to reach for Jug only to have him pull away, body repulsed by the memories. He couldn't stop the tears, the ache in his chest at the thought of what he could have endured, what the others had suffered because no one came to rescue them. He hopes nothing else happened while he unconscious, surely, he would know, he would sense if he had been violated. Wren assures him with a shared memory that their captor liked them to be awake when he took them. It doesn’t make him feel better.

"Jug, I am so sorry, I wasn't thinking." Archie apologised for the umpteenth time, "It just came out, shit, I am so sorry."

"Archie, it's okay" Jughead reassured, finally able to accept the outstretched hand, he bought it to his lips and brushed a kiss over Archie's knuckles. "It was an honest mistake; I'm okay now."

"What did you see?" Archie scooted closer. Luna jumped up onto the bed, she'd been watching the dainty flakes fall from the sky with delight all afternoon.

"It was a memory" he sighed, stomach-turning and skin crawling at the thought of it. " _He_ was undressing me” he paused, felt Archie tense and he had to force down the bile and blink back tears “he was touching me.”

Archie’s eyes flicker with anger and disgust and panic “he didn’t… he didn’t _do_ anything to you, did he Juggie?”

“No” he sniffled, hating what he had to say next “but he would have. He raped the others.”

Archie is on the verge of tears, arms opening in an invitation for a hug and Jughead knows he is the one seeking comfort.

Jughead wrapped Archie in his arms, let him weep and sob, crying for the pain he had endured and for everything that could have come. Even now, hours later he is still clingy, as they drive in silence in the dark, he rests a hand on Jughead's knee like he is trying to reassure himself that he is still here. Jug is worried they took a wrong turn, the signs are frosted over, and snow is starting to fall steadily, making the road slippery and Jughead feels a sense of dread creep up his spine.

“Arch,” he doesn’t want to worry Archie, who seems to be too busy playing with the dials of the radio to notice they might be lost. “I don’t think you’re going to pick up any signals.”

“Worth a try” he smirks, squeezes Jug’s knee. “Dad seriously needs to get an iPod dock.”

“Or you could get a license and buy your own car” Jughead teases, batting Archie’s hand away from the stereo “Leave it, it’s a lost cause.”

Archie sighed, turning his attention to the dark woods passing by. They fall into silence, Jughead keeps both hands firmly planted on the steering wheel, and Archie's hand stays warm and comforting on his leg. Outside the trees bend and bow in the howling wind, the road is turning glistening white as the snow descends upon them with no care for their safety. The radio sparks to life, white noise blasts from the speakers, muffled voices and interwoven songs play in the background under a sound he cannot identify, but it leaves him cold. Taking one hand off the wheel he fiddles with the dial, trying to lower the volume only to no avail.

He spares Archie a quick glance finding him unaffected by the noise; the engine sputters, and they roll to a sudden stop. The radio switches off, the headlights cut out, surrounding them in darkness. Archie is alert; this is really happening, they've broken down miles from town with a snowstorm looming dangerously close. They need to get help and if they aren’t lost then Cheryl's house shouldn't be far off, if they hurry they can make it and call for a tow in the morning. The cabin of the truck illuminates with the light of their cells, Archie tries calling Betty who Veronica persuaded to go to the party, but there is no reception.

“What do we do?”

“We’ll have to walk” Jughead braces himself against the frigid winds as he steps out into the open, stuffing his hands deep into his jacket pockets. “It can’t be that far” he shouts above the roar of the wind as he rounds the truck, stepping into the light of Archie’s cell. Jug's is going flat, the battery never lasts, and he is going to have to ask his dad for a new one for Christmas if he can afford it. For now, he’s going to have to rely on Archie’s.

“This seems like a bad idea, Jug.”

“Not as bad as doing nothing” he frees his hand, lacing his fingers through Archie’s. “C’mon we have to go.”

Archie nods. Follows Jughead down the dark road, the glow of the cell phone their only light. Already Jughead is freezing, has to let go of Archie's hand and return it to his pocket, he feels sluggish, legs struggling to carry him. He is walking a few steps behind Archie when he hears something rustle in the bushes, feels eyes on the back of his head. Whipping around he finds only darkness, can make out the outline of swaying branches and towering tree trunks when he turns back around Archie is gone. Vanished like he was swallowed by the darkness that stretches out in every direction.

“Archie” he screams “ARCHIE!”

Nothing, no voice floating back to him in the wind, no light reappearing to illuminate a pale face and thick red hair. There is no choice but to run, to keep heading in the direction he was going and hope he makes it to Cheryl's or finds Archie emerge from the abyss. Legs have grown stiff and numb from the cold; it feels like he has been running for hours, searching the dark for a light, a shard of hope or sight of red hair. Fear courses through his veins like gasoline, propelling him forwards even though he is on the verge of collapse.

Up ahead he sees hope, headlights pierce the abyss, and he could weep with joy. He is so close to salvation when unexpectedly the car makes a turn, vanishing down a narrow dirt road that is closed to the public by a rusted old fence. It doesn't matter what lies ahead; he must follow the road, he is lured over the gate with its eroded ‘Keep Out' sign that hangs from one string, he follows the paths, avoids the potholes and fallen branches like he'd walked this road a million times before.

In the distance, he hears music, the rumble of an engine rising above the wild winds. On he goes, cold forgotten, all thoughts of finding shelter gone from his mind. He must keep going; there is a secret hiding in the dark, a piece of the story waiting to be told. Finally, he arrives, stands in the line of two blinding headlights, air swirling with music, and muffled voices like the radio announcer forgot to stop the song playing before he started speaking. The lights shut off, silence falls. Jughead ventures closer to the car that is nestled among the bushes and trees, covered in snow and grim from spending months out in the open.

“Jug?”

Jughead whirls around, finding Archie standing a few feet away, shivering from the cold. He whips back around, expecting the car to be gone but it's still there, despite the cold he rushes towards it, peering in through the windows, he can't see in the dark, so he fishes his phone from his pocket. The light illuminates a few duffle bags, one white with pink polka dots and the other blue and gold; the Bulldogs logo embroidered on the side. This car belonged to Jason Blossom; he was going to run away. But why? He had everything; girls, football, popularity, money, what could have possibly made Riverdale's golden boy want to run away?

“Juggie,” Archie is at his side, peering in the window “who does this car belong to?”

"Jason" he moves towards the back, the trunk is unlocked, and it swings open on squeaky hinges, inside there is a football jersey, a pair of winter boots and four black bags. "He was running away." Jug picks up one of the duffle, unzipping in hopes of finding who it belonged to, only finding it to be full of weed.

“Wow” Archie exclaims, “Why does he have so much weed?

“I don’t know” he quickly whips the baggies over, hoping he didn’t leave any fingerprints before zipping the duffle up. "Who were you running away with Jason?" he asked the wind, and it does not answer, Jason does not appear in the dark or share a memory.

“Is he here?”

“No” Jughead zips the bag closed and slams the trunk shut. “We need to call the Sheriff.”

"We need to get to Cheryl's first," Archie says through chattering teeth. "I got a signal awhile back and called Ronnie; she is on the way to pick us up. We need to get back to the road so that she can see us."

“We shouldn’t tell Cheryl about this.”

“Agreed” Archie took hold of Jughead, steering him back towards the way they came.

“We’ll call Keller in the morning,” Jughead huddled into Archie’s side, only now realising how cold he had become. He shivered violently, legs cramping and struggling to keep him from collapsing to the snow-covered ground. “Were you following me the whole time?”

"Yeah" Archie stammered "I turned around, and you were walking off into the dark, and when I called out you just kept going, it's like you were in a trance, so I followed you until we arrived here. What was it like for you?"

"Everything was dark." God, he felt so tired, bones fusing together, muscles straining to move. "I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm right here Juggie" Archie pulled him closer, holding tight to him as they emerged back onto the road, in the distance headlights could be seen coming towards them. "Stay with me; Jug" Archie lead him over to where the car came to a stop, helping him into the backseat before climbing in himself. He wrapped Jug in his arms, Veronica blasted the heater and on the edge of the road, standing in the snow was a redheaded boy, who was caught between this world in the next.

**~X~X~X~**

Archie slips into the bath with a sigh of relief, feeling the hot water thaw his frozen muscles and return feeling to his feet. He looks over at Jug, who is shielding his body with the mountain of bubbles. When they arrived at Cheryl's, she took one look at their damp clothes, muddied boots and trembling frames and ushered them up the grand staircase into a lavish bathroom where she filled a large spa bath with lavender scented bubbles and heavenly warm water for them. Jughead had declined, cheeks colouring pink and eyes shimmering with fear, but Cheryl insisted, and he was too tired to put up a fight.

Jughead didn't want to undress in front of him; he looked truly uncomfortable as he shrugged off his coat which was dusted with ice, fabric sticking to the threadbare jumper underneath. It breaks his heart to see Jug so ashamed of his body, he had been a little shy at the start of their relationship, but this isn't Jug turning bright red as Archie slips his underwear down his legs, letting fingers trail back up to go new places. This is Jughead asking him to turn away out of fear, out of shame and even though Archie has reassured him countless times that he won’t freak out Jug still isn't ready for his scars to be seen. Archie turns away, fighting back the words building in his throat, the urge to look, to make Jug understand that he loves him no matter what.

He'd taken their sodden clothes and handed them to Cheryl who goes to put them in the dryer. With Jughead's permission, he turned around and climbed into the bath. Now they are sitting in silence, Jughead looks tired and forlorn, and he wants to make him smile, to make him feel safe and happy. It's a childish whim that his him splashing Jughead with a wave of bubbly water, laughing when it catches Jug off guard. He looks up, lips quirking into a small smirk as he splashes back, a trickle of laughter escaping into the air.

“Alright, alright, Archibald I fold” Jughead holds up his hands in surrender. “You win.”

Archie can see the red lines hidden beneath the bubbles, without thinking he reaches for Jug's arm, he tries to pull away, but Archie pulls his arm closer, bringing Jug with it. Tentatively he runs his fingers over the thin scars, shifting so he can kiss each mark tenderly. "I hate that this happened to you, Jug" he meet's Jug's eyes, finding tears and a collection of emotions he couldn't possibly understand. "I wish I had made you come back to my place or that I…" he shrugged, fighting back the tears of his own "I wish I did something."

"You did do something" Jughead chokes out, "You found me, Arch, it was only going to get worse. He didn't leave me to die, I don't remember where he went, but he would have come back, and I would be somewhere else, suffering the same things as the others." His voice breaks, tears dripping into the water. "Archie, God, this is all so fucked up."

“I know” he sighs, anger burning hot in his gut at the thought of what would have been done to Jughead. “I wish I could help more, that I was better at stringing sentences together, so I could tell you how much I love you and that I’m never going to be bothered by your scars. Not in the way you think I might be. I hate that they are there, I hate that it must have hurt so much to have this done to you, but I won’t ever not love you because of them.” He looks back to Jug’s arm, running his fingers once more over the raised lines, “do they hurt?”

“Not anymore” he admits “but the ones on my back do sometimes. When the lost boys are close it feels like they are reopening, I can feel everything that happened to him.”

Archie looks up, eyes widening in horror “Even when they were…” he trails off, unable to speak the four-letter word.

“Even then” he frees his arm from Archie’s hold, huddling in the corner of the tub. “It goes away, and I know it didn’t happen to me, but _he_ touched me, Archie. I can still feel his hands on my skin, the knife curving up my back like I was a blank canvas…” he looks down at the water, absentmindedly running his fingers through the bubbles. “I know you think you won't be horrified by them but trust me, you will be. I was, _I still am_. What he left me with is ugly and painful, and I don't want you to see the fucked-up thing he did to me."

Archie flinches at Jughead's anger, he tries to find something to say, anything to make Jughead feel better but he remembers how devastated he was after seeing the scars on his back for the first time. He couldn't stop crying, wouldn't let anyone console him. Archie and his dad were forced to watch him fall apart right before their eyes. The following day Jughead didn't get out of bed, wouldn't eat or talk to them until his dad spent over an hour talking to him, coaxing him out of the dark. He doesn't know what his dad said to Jug, he waited anxiously outside, and when his dad emerged he told him to give Jug some time, and a few minutes later Jughead crept out into the light.

Archie can only think to say this, it's headstrong and unfair, but the only way they are going to get past this is for him to see. He has glimpsed the other scars, the jagged red line running from his collarbone to his sternum is visible through the bubbles, and he briefly saw the six-inch scar that is on the soft flesh of his abdomen while Jug was still in the hospital. They are fading, healing faster than Jug's fragile mind and a broken heart. Archie doesn't think and says, "Show me."

Jughead recoils, eyes swimming with hurt, with anger “No, Archie” he looks away, not before Archie can see the tremble of his bottom lip “I want you to leave.”

Archie winces at the venom in his voice; he didn't want to upset Jug further, he just wanted to fix things between them not make it worse. He could push, could ask again, with more tenderness to his words but he can see the walls rising, see Jughead withdrawing. There is no choice; he has to give him space, he owes him that much. Without a word, he climbs out of the tub. Cheryl still has his clothes, and he left their bag downstairs by the front door with their shoes, but he can sense Jughead needs him to leave. He dries himself in a hurry, tying the towel around his waist, he casts one last look at Jughead, who won't meet his eyes, before slipping out of the room. The last thing he heard was a pitiful sob, and it took all his strength to walk away.

***

If Archie is to be thankful for anything in this messed up night, it is that he ran into Cheryl in the hallway, who had his freshly dried clothes. She smiled sweetly at him, eyes travelling over his bare chest, making him feel self-conscious. She handed him his garments and told him he could get dressed in her room then meet everyone downstairs by the fire and he could help himself to some food. He gratefully took his things, telling her to leave Jug's outside the bathroom before ducking into her room where he quickly changed. When he emerged she was gone, he figured she went downstairs, so he retraced his footsteps, finding his way to the impressive living room.

Betty, Veronica and Kevin were seated right by the fire on the crimson couches. Reggie, Moose and a few of the other Bulldogs lingered in the background, chatting with the River Vixens plus Josie, Melody and Valarie. He ignored them entirely heading straight to the fire, sitting down on the couch opposite his friends. Kevin handed him a plate of food; he devoured the mini pastries and cheese and biscuits, he hadn't realised how hungry he was until this very moment. Kevin offers to get him some more, and he is left to answer the questions Betty and Veronica have been waiting to ask.

“What happened out there, Archie?” Betty went first, eyebrows knitted together in concern.

"I told you, the truck broke down, so we walked" he replied flatly, she doesn't need to know about what they found, not now when there are too many people to overhear. "When I got reception, I rang you guys, that's it."

“You both looked pretty freaked out when we arrived” Veronica objected.

“We were just cold” he lied “honestly, we’re fine now.” He surveys the room, trying to spot Cheryl but there is no flash of red hair to be seen “where is Cheryl?”

“She went upstairs, isn’t that how you got your clothes?” Veronica asked.

"I thought she came back down" had she gone somewhere else, it would be easy to disappear in this place. He got his answer when he saw her enter the room the way a model would strut down a runway, Jughead following behind, head bowed, shoulders hunched. He slinks towards them, choosing to sit in the empty seat beside Betty, Archie can't help but feel hurt.

“You okay, Jug?” Betty reached out to touch his hand, he flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away.

“Yeah, I’m fine” he won’t look Archie’s way, keeps his gaze down, like he was fascinated by the details of the rug. “I’m just tired.”

"Cheryl said we could all stay the night" Veronica announced, "we're not getting home through that storm."

“Mum would kill me if she knew I was here” Betty muttered.

“It’s a good thing we’ll never tell” Kevin reappeared, handing a plate piled with food to him and another to Jughead, who only picks at the food, even though he must be hungry.

 “This feels surreal” Betty whispered, “we shouldn’t be here.”

"Why are you here?" Jughead enquired, nibbling at a mini quiche.

“Polly was dating Jason” she revealed, keeping her voice low “and my parents have banished her to God knows where and I want to know why. My dad said she was hurting herself, but I don’t believe that she would never. I know they are hiding things from me, so I am here to find answers.”

"I'm sorry Betty, I didn't know any of that was happening" Were all their lives unravelling? Was this town keeping even more secrets from them, hiding monsters and loved ones? "What exactly are you looking for?"

“Anything that will tell me what went down between them.”

“Do you think it has something to do with Jason going missing?” Jughead questioned.

“Maybe” Betty shrugged, eyes clouding with distress. “I’m scared my parents did something to Jason. I can’t trust them anymore.”

“Trust is hard to come by these days.”

Jughead's gaze lingers on Archie, for a moment he thinks he is saying he can't trust him, that he pushed too hard and he'd ruined everything, but no that isn't it. He is lowering the walls, waving the white flag. Relief flows through him; he was terrified for a moment there, he knows he fucked up, that he shouldn't have pushed so hard or demanded to see Jug's scars. He is sorry, so fucking sorry and he will say so, say it a thousand times and a thousand more. Jughead will hold him at arm's length, he still needs time, but this is a step in the right direction. He isn't sure what made Jug forgive him so quickly, he certainly doesn't deserve it, but he is glad, he doesn't want them to fight, to fall apart under the weight of all that has happened and is happening.

"We'll find answers" he directs this at Betty but glances at Jug as he says it "things will be okay, we'll get to the bottom of this." And they will, Betty will investigate Jason's disappearance, and the role Polly had to play in it. Jug will follow the clues left by the lost boys, he'll glimpse into the past and uncover the truth, and Archie will help Jug make sense of the memories and disjointed stories. Together they will rid this town of the monsters that lurk within its shadows.

**~X~X~X~**

The walls of Thornhill Manor moan in the dead of night, floorboards creak and groan under the pressure of socked feet. The glow of the cell phone makes the hallway leading to Jason Blossom's room appear eerie, shadows becoming monsters in hiding. Ever since Jughead crossed the threshold into this gothic horror mansion, he has been feeling uneasy, feels fear beat in time with his heart, the urge to leave settling in his bones along with the ice that not even the hot bath could thaw. There is something sinister lurking within these walls; it's hidden just out of sight, waiting in the darkness to take hold of him.

Eyes are watching him, and not those of the lost boys, they have not followed him through the storm to the gates of Thornhill. Tonight, it's just him and Archie tip-toeing through the dark hallway in search of Jason's bedroom, hoping not to wake Cheryl or any of the other sleeping guests. The manor is filled with slumbering teens, the party fizzled out before the clock struck twelve and those smart enough not to drive retreated to a room where they would sleep off the rum.

It's nearing one now, Jason's bedroom door is visible in the silver beam of light, the door creaking open before Jughead even has the chance to turn the knob. He enters with caution, shining the light in every direction, expecting to see Jason's waterlogged face materialise among the shadows. Satisfied no ghosts or ghouls are hiding in the dark Jughead shuts the door and switches on a lamp, the room is at least six degrees colder than the hallway, the golden glow from the lamp does little to change the disconcerting atmosphere.

He doesn't know what they will find; he is sure The Blossoms' have poured through every little thing already, searching for a trace, a hint of where their son might have gone. If only they knew that he was so close, his abandoned getaway car was just out of sight, his body trapped somewhere within the frozen waters of Sweetwater River. Jason had been set to run, ready to take Polly with him, together they would vanish in the night, two more missing reports to be added to the collection. But Polly never had the chance to run, Betty said her parents shipped her off someplace where she would be safe, but why and safe from what?

Safe from herself? From whoever took Jason? The deeper he went, the more mysteries he stumbled upon, more questions and no answers. It wasn't his place to go chasing after Polly; he'd leave that to Betty, she was smart, she'd find her. In the morning, he'd tell her about the car, she deserved to know, and it might help point her in the right direction. He doesn't know where to look, the drawers only turn up neatly folded expensive silk shirts, the wardrobe tells no tales, and there are no journals or a laptop to shine a light on his inner workings.

Jughead looks to Archie who is rifling through a desk drawer; they haven't really talked about what happened earlier. He knows Archie was only trying to help in his own misguided way; he knows hiding his scars is putting distance between them. That the lost boys and all the maddening, swirling memories are making him act differently, that not dealing with what happened to him is breaking them. He doesn't want to fall apart, he doesn't want them to fall apart. He can only give and feel so much. With a head full of emotions and thoughts that are not always his own it makes it hard to focus, to give all of himself to Archie.

He has to connect the dots, find the remaining lost boys; he knows there are more, figure out how Jason Blossom is involved in all of this and find The Collector. Only then can he break, can he take time to rebuild, recover from what happened and what is still happening. He won't ever give up on them; he can't do this alone. Archie is here with him, searching in the dark through his former friend's room. Archie isn't going anywhere; he can lower the walls, let himself find comfort from the boy he loves.

There is nothing to be found here in this empty, hollow space of Jason’s room. He takes Archie's hand; it's a silent acceptance of his apologies, a sign that it's okay, _they’re okay_. He smiles in the golden light, beautiful and alive and Jughead is pulling him in for a kiss, needing something sweet and pure amidst all the darkness and horror. Archie cradles his face, the callouses on his fingers familiar and comforting against the soft skin of his cheek. He sinks into the kiss, letting it grow and change into something fierce, needing this more than he needs air to fill his lungs.

Kissing Archie feels like summer days under a blistering sun; it tastes like Coca-Cola and vanilla ice cream. Time unwinds, sending him back to the moment they first kissed, sitting atop of a rolling hill that overlooked a shimmering lake below. Archie's skin is always warm, his kisses are eager, fervent like he might never get the chance to kiss Jug again. Everything about Archie is fire; his hair, his temper, his passion, so when Jug's lungs fill with ice and the hands holding his face turn cold and smooth as marble he knows something isn't right.

He recoils, stumbling backwards and falling onto the bed, trembling as Jason steps closer, reaching out, always reaching out with his dirt-covered hands with their gruesome patchwork of missing flesh. He tries to speak; murky water trickles from his rotting mouth, Jughead's lungs squeeze tight in his chest, heart pounding against his ribcage. He can't find his voice; it's trapped below the scream building in his chest, climbing up his throat to implode in the silent night air.

Jason steps into the light, body contorting and air rippling, he throws his head back and lets out a gurgled scream, vanishing in a swirl of inky black tendrils. In the light is Archie, reaching for Jughead like nothing happened, like Jason Blossom wasn’t just in the room, in the very spot Archie stands. A shaky breath escapes Jug’s aching lungs, he lurches himself into Archie’s embrace, needing his warmth to chase away the chill, needing to reassure himself that he is real, that there is still a heart beating in his chest.

“It’s okay, Juggie” he whispered, “I’m here, you’re safe.”

“I saw Jason” he whispered back “I don’t know what he’s trying to tell me.”

“We’ll figure it out, Jug” he stepped back, keeping his arms slung low around Jughead’s waist. “We will, and we’ll find the man who hurt you, okay?”

"Okay," he had to believe they would, that eventually the strings would connect the dots and lead them in the right direction. "It's freezing in here, let's get back to bed before someone hears us."

“Yeah, good idea.” Archie takes his hand, switches off the lamp then leads them back to their room, where they crawl under the covers and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

**~X~X~X~**

Morning brings calm in the aftermath of the chaos, Jughead wakes early, mind racing with thoughts, trying to solve the puzzle without all the pieces. He wants this to be over, he wants his life back, not to be some medium for the dead, the only one able to save the lost souls trapped in the in-between. With memories of last night swirling in his mind it makes him ache for the summer, the forgotten days of spring where he was worried about finding a place to sleep at night.

He’s tired, fragile mind leading him down a dark path, despair settling heavy in his lungs, spreading through his bloodstream. The lost boys have blown here in the night, crept silently through the house, seeping in through the gaps in the floorboards. They linger in the back of his mind like a forgotten memory, their misery entangling with his. There is no time to rest, to waist the day, every minute must be spent searching.

They want to be found, they've spent so long in the dark, and they won't let him rest, let him enjoy the way Archie's arms encircle his waist, making him feel safe. They pull his strings, and he rises, body hurting, joints feeling stiff. He wakes Archie, and five minutes later he is knocking on Betty's door, well he hopes its Betty's door, they all look the same. She appears behind the heavy oak frame, blonde hair dishevelled and eyes bleary from sleep, behind her Veronica demands to know who is waking them at this ungodly hour.

"We have to tell you something" Archie announces, and Betty steps aside to let them in.

“What is it?” she asked, pulling on her coat as she shivers in the morning air.

"Last night we found something" Archie explained, "we didn't want to tell you in case Cheryl found out."

“In case Cheryl found out what?” Veronica demanded, sitting up to glare daggers at them.

“Jason was planning to run away” Archie continued. “We found his car stashed in some bushes at the end of a no through road, don’t ask how, we can’t tell you, but I think Polly was going to run away with him. There were girl’s duffle bags and for some reason a lot of weed, but it was Jason’s car.”

“Oh god” Betty collapsed to the bed, Veronica crawled towards her, taking her into her arms. “What the hell are my parents hiding?”

“I think it’s bigger than that, Betty” Jughead finally spoke, trying to offer some comfort. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think your parents had anything to do with Jason’s disappearance.”

“So, are we thinking something else happened to Jason?” Veronica inquired.

He wants to say Jason is gone, tell them that he was lead to the car by something he doesn't yet understand, but they wouldn't believe him, not like Archie does. There will be no sharing his tale of ghosts and visions that are leading him to something dangerous. "I think it's safe to assume the worst," he said, resting a hand on Betty's shaking shoulder. "Polly is safe, Betty, wherever she is, she is alive, but you need to find her. You need to ask her why they were going to run away, where they were heading and if anyone knew of their plans."

“Do you think someone tried to stop them leaving?” Betty’s eyes darkened, taking on a dangerous glint “my parents hated Polly dating Jason, they would do anything to stop her leaving, including kill Jason.”

"Betty, your parents aren't murders" Archie reasoned, "Look, let's just leave, and we'll call the sheriff when we get to town, and he can figure out if something actually happened to Jason."

Archie is trying to soothe Betty, to not let her mind go to dark places even when he knows Jason is dead and he could have been killed by anyone be it the Cooper’s or the innocent neighbour down the road. But how does Jason tie in with the others? He isn't like them; he isn't a victim of The Collector, the only thing he has in common is that he is sixteen and dead. Jughead needs answers, needs to go back to the beginning and retrace every step. He feels sick just thinking about it, skin crawling and blood turning to ice but there is no choice, he must return to where this all began.

“I want to see it” Betty rises, bringing him back to the present “take me to Jason’s car.”

**~X~X~X~**

Mr Andrews is furious they lied to him; Jughead has never seen him angry before, never had it directed at him, and he feels awful. Fred allowed him into his home, looked after him while he was recovering, woke him from nightmares and dried his tears, supported him through the darkest hours and Jug went behind his back, drove Archie half an hour out of town to a place they weren't allowed to go. He did all of this with a snowstorm looming on the horizon; he could have gotten them killed. He's so sorry.

It doesn’t matter that they came home in one piece, that they found Jason Blossom’s getaway car and gave Sheriff Keller his first real clue in months. He lied, Archie lied, and it was hard to give an explanation when the truth was so unbelievable. He can’t tell Mr Andrews that he needed to go to Cheryl’s, that Jason was calling to him, luring him from the safety of these four walls to the dangerous no through road where a new piece of the puzzle was waiting. Mr Andrews cannot know about the visions, the three other boys that have unpacked and made a home within this house.

He takes his punishment; he's never been grounded before, never had anyone who cared enough to punish him for lying or sneaking out past curfew. He sits cross-legged on the bed, newspaper clippings, missing person’s posters and hand-written notes scattered before him. Luna is huddled on his lap, purring softly as he strokes her silky fur. He has been banished to his room, phone and laptop confiscated and Archie-less since he's been imprisoned too. He wishes he could tell him they need to go back to the motel, that it's time to retrace every step because he is wandering in circles, desperate for answers, for justice.

Because no one else will get it for him. When he sat across the desk from Sheriff Keller, sipping a bitter black coffee to chase the chill from his bones, he finally found the courage to ask how his case was going. Keller sighed, looked up from the page he was scribbling Jughead's story on to, and said the case was closed until a new lead was found. It took all his strength not to cry, to not rise in a rage and smash the mug on the ground, to slam his hands down on the desk and demand he keep looking, beg for him not to give up.

He didn't cry, though he felt the prickle of tears, bottom lip quivering as he held back the flood; he swallowed the rage and bowed his head to hide the pain. Keller wouldn't find the man who tortured him, who killed the others, he wouldn't look or seek justice for the lost boys, for him. In this moment, in the cold, grey office, Jughead finally understands why this was happening. He was the only one who lived, he was the lost boy's tether to the world, and he was their last hope. Even if he has to lie, even if has to go it alone he will find answers, he will find the monster who destroyed so many lives, even if he had to destroy his own to do so.

He gently lies Luna down on the duvet, stuffing the papers back into the folder before shoving it under the mattress. He shrugs on his coat; the one Fred bought him the other week for winter since his last coat was lost somewhere between the trailer and the drive-in. Again, he is sorry, he will not be forgiven for this, but he must go now, must give chase because no one else can. Silently he opens the window, he hasn't climbed this tree before, but its branches are thick and look sturdy enough underneath the snow weighing them down.

Fred won't see him unless he is outside or in the downstairs bathroom and the Cooper's house is on the opposite side, so Betty can't tell Archie she saw him run off. She is probably in enough trouble to keep her busy until Christmas anyway. Mrs Cooper was not happy to be picking her daughter up from the sheriff’s station; she was even less happy to know that the knowledge of Polly's attempt to run away had reached so many ears. He hoped Betty got answers; she was distraught when they found the car and discovered it was indeed packed with Polly's belongings. He is grateful she has Veronica, between the two of them they will come up with a cunning plan to find Polly.

Jughead has a different direction to head in, he hasn't worked out how he'll get there, but he can't sit inside and spend the day chasing dead ends. There must be something, a scrap of missed evidence, a trace of the monster who took him apart in the dark. It's an unsteady climb down the tree; his body hasn't fully recovered from what was done to it. He lands on the snow-covered ground with a soft thud; it's a straight shot to the garage which leads to the back street, then he'll have to work something out because it's too cold to walk all the way.

He makes it to the garage undetected, he slips out of sight, finding, to his surprise the roller door has been left open, Archie's ancient blue bike resting against one of the couches. When they were younger, he would ride around on the handlebars as Archie peddled them down the street, to Pop's or Sweetwater River. Now it's covered in dust and cobwebs, calling out to him. Memories swirl as he steers it towards the open door, the tyres are a little flat and the chain rusted, but it will work just fine.

Buttoning his coat, he braces himself for the cold, for the danger lurking ahead. He is about to mount the bike when he hears the crunch of footsteps in the snow. For a panicked moment, he thinks he's busted, but he knows those footsteps, the shuffle and rustle of fabric can only belong to one person. Archie rounds the corner, stepping into the garage, cheeks flushed from the cold, dark circles under his eyes that could rival Jug's.

“Archie, what are you doing here?” he reaches for the bike, knowing Archie won’t try to stop him.

“My Juggie senses were tingling” he grinned, trying to bring some light to this sombre day. “Seriously, Jug, where are you going?”

“Back to where it all began” he mounted the bike, showing Archie he was going no matter what, there was no turning around now “Well for me at least.”

“You’re going back to the motel?” he hissed “Jug, are you crazy.”

“Probably, I am seeing ghosts after all” he peddled forward but Archie stepped in front of him. “I’m going, Archie, you can’t stop me.”

“I’m not letting you go alone” he declared, “Now, get off, I could always ride faster than you.”

Jughead rolls his eyes but obeys, letting Archie take the seat, and he climbs on behind him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. "Thank you" he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his flushed cheek.

“I won’t let you go through this alone, Jug” he promised, briefly touching his hand before starting to ride out into the open, getting used to the feel of it again. “What do you think we’ll find?”

"I don't know" he admitted, grip tightening as Archie increased the speed, zooming down the street and turning onto Elm Drive, taking the shortcut to Maple Bridge which would lead them along Fox Forest Road and straight out of town. Best they avoid going into the town itself, they had to stick to the shadows, take the hidden paths in case curious eyes spotted them, in case there is someone dangerous lurking in the masses. Which, there is. There is a monster walking the streets, sitting in booths at Pop's, watching, watching, watching, waiting to spot the next perfect blank canvas which he will use to create his gruesome art.

“What if _he’s_ hiding there?" Archie's tone was a mixture of anger and fear, and it awoke the same reaction within him. 

"We kill him" his words are colder than the ice at their feet, sticky with venom, laced with a hatred he's never felt before. He may love crime mysteries and horror movies, he might have poured through books on serial killers, but he's never wanted to hurt someone, to _kill_ someone. Not until now, this isn't about a sick, twisted desire, this is about justice, about making sure no one will ever be hurt the way he was. This is about revenge for the lost boys, who had so many birthdays, adventures and first times ahead of them, only to be taken too soon. Their futures were stolen by a monster, who liked to hurt and break boys in the most sinister ways.

He is not a killer, but he will kill if there is no other choice.

"With pleasure," Archie says, no waver or guilt to his words, only determination and desire to do what needs to be done.

***

From the outside no one would know such horrors took place, it looks like any other abandoned building, walls graffitied from teen vandals who snuck out here late at night to do drugs or explore the empty rooms, picking through the trash and the filth left behind by others. From the outside looking in no one could tell that one of the rooms was a crime scene, that a monster tortured an innocent boy in the dark for hours. Jughead is trying to find the strength to enter, yellow crime scene tape dances in the wind, holding tight to the doorframe so the breeze cannot carry it away. He has been forgotten; they didn't even bother to remove the tape, it's come loose on its own, no one has dared enter since.

The handle is cold against his palm; the hinges shriek in resistance, the room wants to keep its secrets, it's bloody past. Crossing the threshold is the hardest thing he's ever had to do, memories swirl, rattling at the cage they've been confined to, begging to be freed. The night is mostly a blur, a patchwork collection of memories that make little sense, and yet they still leave him afraid, give him nightmares to fill in the gaps with and sometimes those are worse. His jagged memories lace with harrowing dreams and twine and twist with the stories shared by the lost boys and it's hard to make sense of the tangled web they weave.

As scared as he is to remember he knows he has to, there are clues hidden in the dark, and he must find them. Venturing further into the room he takes in every detail, from the blood-stained carpet that will never be clean to the moth-eaten holes in the drapes and the spring bedframe that is rusted and coated with a layer of dust. Feet carry him towards the very spot where he was bound to a metal table; it must have been taken for evidence. Twirling in a circle he closes his eyes, letting all thoughts go.

He breathes, feels the energy shift, the tell-tale sign of the world slipping away as he glides seamlessly into the in-between. Rain pelts loudly on the tin roof, a sly breeze bellows through the room, the curtains rustle, the door shrieks as it swings open. Jughead's eyes snap open to find a frail-looking man clothed in an oversized coat, with greasy brown hair covered in a worn black beanie and face hidden by a scraggly beard. A look of horror crosses his face, eyes flooding with fear and Jug can see he is only young, maybe mid-twenties but misfortune has fallen upon him, and he is living on the streets, and he's just stumbled upon something he wasn't meant to see.

He moves quickly, whirling around and running for his life. Jug follows, sprinting past Archie; only he can't see him, he is safe in the world of the living. Jug follows the man into the woods that have become overgrown at the edge of the motel grounds, retracing his footsteps until he comes to an abrupt stop. Jug approaches him with caution, afraid of what he might see. The homeless man turns around slowly, eyes shimmering with tears, blood oozing from the side of his face that has been bashed in. He did this, The Collector followed him out into the woods and bashed his skull in with a rock. That's why he left, that's when Archie had the chance to save him.

"What's your name?" Jughead asked, he deserved to be remembered, not to be forgotten like the others.

"J… Joe Manning" the spirit stammers. "I was only looking for somewhere to sleep then I saw you, and I knew I had to get help…" his body flickers, it reminds Jughead of the old television set his grandparents used to own before it finally blew up one hot summers day.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you” he whispered, “but did you see anything? Please, I need to know, I need to find him.”

“I saw pure evil” he murmured “pure evil hiding in hearts, in depths of green eyes, hidden by the face of the innocent.”

He is talking riddles, left eye darting side to side and back to him, the right one is bulging out of his head from the sheer force of the hit, Jughead feels sick looking at it. “What does that mean?”

"Alice shouldn't have chased the rabbit down the rabbit hole" he is delirious. "There are monsters in the dark, a big house out of sight with rooms to which he keeps them in. Never to escape, they lie in wait." He lurches forward, grabbing hold of Jughead, forcing his past on him. Images dance behind his eyes, nights spent in the freezing cold, huddled in boxes, in dark corners and abandoned places for warmth. There are highs that are so high it's like he won't ever come back down but he does, he always does. The lows are maddening, he is jittery, clawing at his skin, digging for bugs that are not there, shouting at the voices, at the shadows, into the void.

He is on the tail end of a high when he stumbles into the motel room, mouth tasting like vomit and a rotten cheeseburger he found in the trash. At first, he doesn't know what he is seeing, thinks the roof is leaking crimson, and there is a white face hovering in the dark. Then he sees, the drug evaporates enough to give him sight, to give him a trickle of clarity. A man is wielding a knife; it glints silver and red, there is a boy bound to a table, blood spilling from his veins. Joe wanted to be a doctor before his girlfriend died and he became addicted to drugs, but at this moment that part of him who wanted to save lives takes over.

He runs, not away, no he is leading the man into the woods, he will find something to defend himself, he'll save that poor boy. Ducking behind a tree, hoping he was not seen, he waits, breath held tight in his chest, heart thrumming wildly. He holds tight to a rock he found along the way, his hands tremble, but he will not falter. There is a sound in the undergrowth, and Joe jumps out from the place of hiding, arm raised, ready to knock that stupid mask right off the maniacs' face. He swings with all his might, but the man grabs hold of his arm, a knife plunging deep into his gut, he falls to his knees, swaying, hands covering the wound oozing warm blood. The last thing he remembers is a rock colliding with his face.

Jughead frees himself from the man's grip, stumbling backwards, heaving into the undergrowth. When he collects himself, the homeless man is gone, the world has returned, and Archie is at his side, asking what he saw, is he okay. He tries to speak, he can't find his voice, can't find a sentence to string together as he tries to make sense of everything he just witnessed. That man, Joe Manning saved him, if Joe hadn't lead The Collector into the woods then Archie would have met the same fate. He grabs hold of Archie, needing to reassure himself that he is alive, that he is not a ghost like all the rest.

"You’re real, right?" he chokes out, hands roaming over Archie's arms, rising to feel the cold skin of his face, his lips that he has kissed a hundred times. "I'm not imagining things, you're real, aren't you?"

“Juggie, yes I am real” he takes hold of Jughead’s hand, moving it to rest over his beating heart. “I’m right here, Jug, I’m real.”

Archie is warm, heart pounding beneath his palm, his lungs draw in a breath that expels from his lungs in plumes, his eyes shine with life, he is tangible, _alive_. “I need you to be real” he sobbed. “I can’t do this alone.”

"I am real" Archie pulls him into his arms, Jug buries his face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, feeling the pulse in his neck. "You're not alone; I am right here Juggie."

 _Real, alive, real, alive, real, alive,_ he repeats to himself, anchoring himself to Archie, to this world, shaking off the madness he just experienced. “He didn’t leave” he mumbles against Archie’s neck. “Someone interrupted him, and he chased them into the woods. If you arrived a few moments earlier, it would have been you.”

“But it wasn’t, I got you out Jug” he steps back, meeting Jug’s wild eyes “we’re okay.”

He nods, letting the madness expel from his lungs, to carry away in the wind. "I'm scared, Arch, I'm so scared, and I don't know how I'm meant to do this. How can I help anyone when I haven't even had the chance to heal?"

“You’re strong, Jug, okay, you are so strong,” Archie said, kissing his temple. “I know you’re scared right now, I am too, but _we_ can do this, okay? We’re in this together.”

Jughead nods again, not trusting his voice right now.

"I think we should go back home," Archie took his hand, leading them back towards the clearing. "There doesn't seem to be anything to find back there, and if dad finds us gone, he will ground us until we're well into our thirties.”

“We need to keep looking” he pressed “Please, just a little longer? We might find something.”

“Okay,” Archie gave in, lips quirking into a smile as he said, “Lead the way, Sherlock.”

Jughead's lips quirked into a fleeting smile, the last of the darkness receding from his veins, the phantom drug dissolving from his system. The world came into focus, sharp and jagged, sky laden with grey clouds, the forest alive with colour and sound. Green eyes, Joe said he had green eyes, said things that made no sense, but riddles were always nonsense at first glance. This is why he felt the urge to come here, not to revisit the abandoned motel but to find the ghost of another soul who held the answers he was seeking.

He whips out his phone, quickly typing in the nonsense words before they can fade from his mind. He doesn’t understand them yet, it appears to be the ranting of a man on the cusp of madness, but he knows better, there are clues woven into the muddled words. The man warned him not go chasing after the white rabbit, but Jug will not turn back now. Even though he is afraid, even though his mind is splintering he will chase the rabbit into wonderland; he will face the horrors and the malice that lie in wait.

**~X~X~X~**

It's a miracle that his dad didn't notice they had snuck out, when Archie tip-toes downstairs, legs aching from the long ride and the climb up the drainpipe, he finds his dad slumbering in front of the TV. Sighing in relief he heads back upstairs, stepping into the steam covered bathroom. Jughead is sitting quietly behind the curtain, he hasn't fully recovered from what he witnessed at the motel, he hasn't said a word since leaving, and Archie is starting to worry.

He is scared that taking Jug back there had been a mistake, that seeing the place where he was tortured had only added fuel to the fire, making the trauma that much worse. Whoever he chased into the woods must have given him answers, they saw The Collector, they were killed by him. Jughead refused to leave until they searched every room, there was another lost soul that needed to be laid to rest. Nothing but rats, cobwebs and graffiti-covered walls were found. There were signs that people had been living there, teens had trashed and marked the place as their own, but there were no rotting bodies hidden in rooms.

People vanish so easily, they fade away like smoke billowing up into the sky, and Archie feels sick to the stomach at the thought of Juggie coming so close to disappearing from his life. If Archie didn't find Jug, if that poor man didn't interrupt _him..._ God he doesn't want to imagine what would be happening to Jug right now. Archie doesn't have to imagine; he knows precisely what would be happening to Jug. Anger coursed through his veins, there is a sense of panic beating in his chest, and he has to breathe, remind himself that Jughead is right here, is sitting behind the curtain in a tub filled with warm water.

He pulls back the curtain; Jug looks up at him, eyes unfocused, body tight with tension. Archie touches his arm; his skin is cold, he gently splashes the warm water on his arm, trying to bring life back into his boyfriend. Jug leans forward, taking Archie by surprise when he captures his lips in a fervent kiss, wet hands grasping hold of the lapels of his jacket, he practically pulls him into the tub. Archie pulls away, hurt clouds Jughead's pale blue eyes, he turns his head, bottom lip quivering the way it does when he is about to cry.

"Juggie, hey" he didn't mean to upset him, he wants nothing more than to kiss him, to make him forget the pain and misery but right now Jug is not in the right frame of mind. "Juggie, I'm sorry. Do you want me to get in with you?" there isn't as much room in his tub as there was Cheryl's. It will be a tight squeeze, but he thinks Jughead needs this right now, to feel him pressed close, to know he is real, not a ghost or an illusion.

He nods in answer, drawing his legs to his chest, so there is room for Archie at the other end. He strips in a hurry, shivering in the cold, his limbs feel stiff and sluggish. When he gets out, he is going to tuck them safely into bed where they can sleep the rest of the day. The water is pleasantly hot, soothing his aching muscles as he submerges himself, feeling the chill finally fade from his veins. There isn't much space between them; he reaches out to touch Jug's knee, bringing him back from whatever dark place he'd momentarily fallen into.

"His name was Joe Manning" Jughead announced, "he was twenty-seven, and when his girlfriend died he became addicted to drugs, but he wanted to be a doctor, and now he is dead because of me, and you could have been next."

“Juggie it’s not your fault” Archie reassured. “You didn’t kill him, _he_ did, and _he_ didn't find me. I am real Jug" he opens his arms wide, it's awkward and uncomfortable moving in the slippery tub, but eventually, Jug manages to nestle between his legs, side pressed to his chest and head pillowed on his shoulder. If Archie dared look he would see the red outline of the wing marring Jug's back, he could feel them against his arm; the skin raised and uneven, he hopes this isn't causing Jug any discomfort. "I'm right here, we're safe" he whispers, stroking nimble fingers through tangled wet locks.

“I know” he murmurs against his chest. “I just want to hold onto something real, something that won’t vanish when I touch it.”

“I won’t ever leave you, Juggie.”

“You can’t promise me that” Jughead whispered, tears mixing with the warm water. “I could still disappear, _he_ could come back for me. Finish what he started.”

Jughead shuddered in Archie’s arms, he doesn’t want to think about Jug going missing again, doesn’t want to feel that sense of dread wash through him, sounding the sirens, warning him that Jughead is in danger. He can’t protect Jughead from the darkness, from the evil that dwells within it, but he will do whatever it takes to keep him safe, to help him find the man who did this to him. Archie will keep him safe, no matter what it takes, no matter what it costs he won’t let Jughead become another lost boy for this town to forget.

“I will always be here” he swore, voice steady, vow bound in love and determination “and I will _always_ protect you.”


	7. Come Away to the Water

Life returns to normal for a few short days, the world spins madly on, and Jughead goes about his life, goes to school, follows Archie to lunch, speaks when spoken to and tries to keep up the façade. It's getting harder; there are cracks in his mask, seams unravelling as he spends nights pouring over old newspapers, plucking out articles on missing boys, adding to the ever-growing pile of forgotten youths. Boys disappear in the dead of night or in the middle of the day; they walk out the front door to meet friends at parties or parks, only somewhere along the way they vanish. They make plans to leave, pack all their favourite things, shimmy out the window and rush headlong into a dangerous world.

One moment they are here, the next they are gone. Some leave things behind, a handmade scarf dropped into a muddy puddle, a shopping note with only three items written on it is taken by the wind, landing on a parked car a mile away but these trivial things will not help anyone find them. A scarf dragged miles from where it first fell from a neck won't hold any details, a shopping note will not even bring attention to the person balling it up and throwing it in the trash.

Alex lost his favourite scarf the night he was taken, it was knitted by his grandmother, who didn't care that he was gay and liked musicals and wearing make-up. Caleb's shopping note slipped from his pocket; he only needed three things, a tin of cocoa, a packet of marshmallows and some gum. Wren left a smouldering car wreck behind that was packed with his belongs, not that it helped, a scarf, a note or a car wouldn't point anyone in the right direction. Jughead was the only person who could find them, his connection and dedication will lead him to their remains, to the place their souls have been bound all these years.

Boys go missing every day, some go on purpose, and they make it to their destinations, get a chance to grow old, to make memories and mistakes, but some are taken far too soon. Jughead cannot find them all, the world is full of lost souls, but he will find the lost boys, he will find Jason Blossom. School doesn't matter; nothing else matters but finding the lost and the monster who took them in the first place. He is in the middle of playing a mindless game of dodgeball when another boy reveals himself. Jug tried to get out of gym, but apparently, three weeks is enough time to recover from being tortured for Coach Clayton and is forced to participate.

He isn't paying attention; there isn't much that can make him focus these days. His fragile mind is always swirling with thoughts, memories that are not his own playing like old movies in the back of his head. Everyone is starting to worry, Mr Andrews has noticed the vacant stares, the loss of appetite, the disinterest in things he used to love, even his dad has noticed the spiralling. Jughead doesn't have time to reassure everyone that he is okay, it would be a lie anyway. He isn't okay; there are cracks in his mind, voices in his head and dead boys living in his room.

The only time he can focus is when Archie is around or if Luna is demanding his attention, her tiny meows scattering the dark thoughts. After returning home from the motel he found himself seeking out Archie more, they spent the afternoon curled up in bed, naked bodies pressed close together. He needed to feel the warmth of Archie's skin, to have it chase the coldness from his veins, his heart. Ever since that night, he has been sneaking into Archie's room after lights out, slipping into his shower to wrap strong arms around his waist.

It had been difficult revealing his scars to Archie, his desire to be close, to be held, had eventually overwritten the fear, allowing him to show Archie what had been done. There was no dramatic reveal; he didn't want the build-up, he merely turned his back to Archie when he was in the shower. He waited to hear a gasp of horror. Instead, he felt fingertips hover over the scars, felt Archie's hot breath against his skin as he pressed his chest flat against the expanse of his back, soft lips teasing the delicate flesh of his neck. He pivoted in Archie's arms, capturing his mouth in a hungry kiss, letting the fear of being rejected unknot from his gut and trickle down the drain, away, away, away. Archie loved him unconditionally; he wasn't repulsed by his scars, he embraced all of his broken parts.

He's lost sight of Archie, bodies move in blurs of colours, shoes squeaking on the gymnasium floor, shouts and laughter piercing the air. Amidst the motion stands a phantom, brilliant blue eyes look at him from behind the net, their eyes meet, and the world fades away. Stories unfold in Jug’s mind; days spent skateboarding the desolate streets, taking photos of abandon stores, of graffiti-covered walls, cars with their windows smashed in and hubcaps stolen.

Adrian Parrish from Greendale went missing in October in the winter of 1989; he had been exploring the streets late at night, snapping pictures of whatever caught his interest. It had started snowing that day; he remembers his leg throbbing painfully from the break he had surgically fixed a year before. It made it difficult to run, he tripped in a patch of ice, hit his head hard on the pavement, blurring his vision so when the man rolled him over Adrian couldn't make out any clear features. He saw a streak of white, a glint of silver then he was swallowed by the darkness. Jughead knows what will come next, it will tear through him like a thousand knives.

The pain and memories do not come, Adrian is gone, the only thing Jughead can see is a red ball inches from colliding with his face. Pain burst to life behind his eyes, vision tunnelling as he collapses to the floor with a thunderous thud. The world fades to nothing, suspending him in darkness for a few terrifying moments before it seeps back in, cold and eerily silent. Eyelids flutter open finding no living souls in sight; the world has crumbled, the gym is a shadowy mess of broken bleachers, cracked walls and splintered floors that are covered with a thick layer of dust.

Jughead rises on shaky legs, there is no pain where the ball connected with his face, though he knows when he returns from the in-between he will have a killer headache and a bruised eye. There is no point staying here; there is nothing to be found in the ruins of the gym, he allows the unseen force to move him in the right direction, leading him out into the desolate hallways. He hasn't ventured far when he comes to a stop by Jason Blossom's locker, the door is already open, swinging on squeaky hinges.

Jason Blossom had always seemed a mystery to him; there were secrets in his eyes, a sadness in the air around him that Jughead knew well. To Riverdale he was the star quarterback, could get any girl he wanted, had a golden future full of potential and shiny promises. Underneath there was more to him, when he was alive Jug didn't really care, he was just another jock making his life miserable, now Jughead was the only person able to help. Jason's friends assumed he'd run away; his family kept chasing dead ends, he held the truth, knew where Jason's body waited and soon he would learn a lot more.

Peering into the locker, he found the usual stuff, a small mountain of books, a few scribbles on the walls and door, a pair of sunglasses and a packet of gum. It looked like a typical teenage boy’s locker but tucked away at the back, sticking out of a copy of Hamlet is a folded picture. Jughead plucks it free, smoothing it out before taking in the grainy image of an unborn child. Jason Blossom had gotten someone pregnant, no, not someone, Polly Cooper. Jug had seen them around throughout the summer, often when he was walking to Archie's he'd see the cherry red mustang cruise by, Polly's blonde locks whipping about in the breeze. He'd catch sight of them when he and Archie snuck out late to go swimming in the river, Archie never noticed them, and he held tight to their secret.

Things were starting to make sense, Jason and Polly were going to run away to raise their unborn child, they were young and in love, and he can only imagine they thought it was the only thing they could do. Jughead knows what love does to you; he would do anything for Archie, he'd pack his bags, grab his hand and whisk them away in the dead of the night if he knew it would keep them safe. Where was safe in this cruel world? Boys disappeared like smoke, snatched by ravenous monsters in the dark, in the blinding light of day.

Jason had planned to run, like so many others before him, and like them, he never made it to his destination. Did Polly even know what happened to Jason? Was she safe from the monsters that stole innocent lives like a thief steals jewels? He needs to speak with Betty; he must tell her that Polly could be in danger. Pocketing the sonogram, he slams the locker shut before turning around to face the empty hallway; he needs to go back now. He doesn't know how to leave the in-between, it pulls him in and spits him back out on its own accord. Is there something else to be found, is Adrian lingering the shadows?

“Hello” he calls out, feeling ridiculous.

Silence greets him; he starts to make his way back towards the gym, feeling anxiety strum to life in his bloodstream. What happens if he gets stuck here? What is happening to him in the waking world? Is he ambling around the school like a lunatic, is he out cold from the hit to the head? He pushes open the heavy oak doors to the gym, almost falling as his boots slip a glistening wet surface. The wooden floors are gone, under his feet is the frozen waters of Crystal Lake, the walls and ceiling vanished, replaced with a bone white sky.

“Jason” his voice echoes on the wind, he takes a few tentative steps forwards.

It's bitterly cold out on the lake, the wind bites at his skin, the ice creaks and groan beneath his feet. He knows where Jason is; he has known this since the first time he laid eyes on him. Kneeling, he sweeps away the thin layer of snow covering the ice, finding inky black water winking at him from below. Jason Blossom lies in the darkness, frozen in the cold depths of the lake until spring thaws him from his watery grave. Jughead rises, casting his eyes to the sky, ravens are circling above him, calling out to him in warning. The ice shudders, splinters and breaks, sending him crashing through into the freezing waters.

He expects to find darkness, to have his breath knocked from his lungs. Instead, there is pain blossoming in his temple, left eye throbbing. Eyes flutter open, finding blinding florescent lights and a white ceiling, gaze travelling to the right he sees Archie's concerned face. Jughead groans, head pounding, nausea pooling his stomach, he rolls onto his side, curling in on himself, he feels awful. He is getting weaker with each lost boy he finds, the scars on his body ache deeply, lungs constrict as though he drowned in the murky depths of Crystal Lake.

“I need to talk to Betty” Jughead murmurs, fighting off the urge to vomit as he lifts his head. “I know why Jason and Polly were going to run away.”

“Jug, you just got knocked out, that can wait a minute” Archie insisted. “How do you feel?”

"Like hell" he muttered "and this can't wait, none of this can wait, Archie. I need to talk to Betty."

Archie looks like he is about to protest, maybe tell Jug to rest a while longer, when the curtain parts, the school nurse and his father stepping into the cubicle. Jughead drops his head to the pillow; he can't tell Archie anything now. The nurse checks him over, he doesn't have concussion thankfully, but he does have a black eye and throbbing headache and a few other aches and pains, so when he is ordered to go home for the rest of the day, he doesn't resist. Archie hugs him tightly before heading back to class; Jug hates seeing the worry in his beautiful brown eyes, the sadness shimmering beneath it.

He doesn't want them to fall apart; he is stronger with Archie at his side. He watches him leave with a heavy heart, fighting back the tears, the urge to chase after him, spin him around and kiss him deeply, not giving a fuck to who sees. His world might be falling apart, the dead have come out to play and share their memories and pain, but as long as he has Archie, he knows he'll survive this. Before he is too far gone, he calls his name, Archie turns back around, light returning to his eyes when Jughead smiles, signing I love you. He signs the three little words back, smile warm and bright, chasing the chill from Jug's bones.

They will talk later, after school he’ll tell Archie everything he knows then they will go to Betty together. In the meantime, he has another lost boy to find.

**~X~X~X~**

There is a pattern, and he can't believe he didn't see it before. A boy goes missing every seven years, they have dark hair and wear ripped jeans with combat boots or t-shirts with slogans and worn out, mud covered sneakers bought from goodwill. They are from the wrong side of the tracks, have troubled histories and uncertain futures, but they had a right to live, to have a chance of making a future for themselves. Wren and Caleb had been so close; freedom had been at their fingertips, could be tasted on their tongues. Adrian and Alex hadn't found the courage to run, but they would have made it to somewhere better someday. If only they weren't taken, seven years apart, from different towns on different days in different months.

Whoever The Collector was he had a seven-year itch and Jughead had been the latest victim and newest doll to add to the collection.  _He_  lived in Riverdale that Jughead knew, Rosewood, Greendale, Maple Falls, were surrounding towns and Riverdale was in the centre, it was the heart of darkness connecting to these innocent places. The killer was here, he was still out there, and while Jug had known that, in this moment it becomes a fact, not a whispered thought in the back of his mind. Is  _he_  watching him from outside the window? Is he following him to school and home again, to Pop’s and the library? Does he know Jughead is looking for him and is he going to return, finish what he started?

Fear comes alive in his veins, is a beast inside his chest, making him restless, jumping at shadows. He pulls the curtains closed, blocking out any watchful eyes that could be lurking in the shadows, from the windows across the street. The golden glow of the lamp scatters the darkness, he keeps scrolling through the internet, searching for more information on Adrian but the Wi-Fi is cutting in and out, the coming snowstorm wreaking havoc on it. At his elbow Luna sits, silver eyes watching him cautiously, her soft meow pulling him back from the edge of a panic attack. He scratches behind her ear; she purrs loudly, crawling onto his lap to demand more attention.

Outside the floorboards creak, he tenses, spinning around on the chair expecting, always expecting to see another lost soul, it’s only his father. He looks troubled, blue eyes dull and tired, bags to rival Jug’s circling under them. FP sighs wearily, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in the stance he knows well, it means he wants to talk. The last time he saw this posture was at the end of summer before he’d left the trailer and moved into the Twilight Drive-in.

It had been a hot summers morning; he'd been sitting in bed, drinking a coffee despite the fact he'd kicked off the blankets and had the small fan blasting at full speed. He'd needed the caffeine, he'd been out late with Archie, Fred had been out for the night, and the house had been theirs. They made good use of the freedom, bruises are blossoming under the collar of his shirt, and his body is stiff and a little sore from the new things he and Archie did in the quiet hours of the night. He was completely lost in the memories when his father appeared in the doorway, every inch of him saying he wanted to talk. 

On that hot summers morning, with coffee on his tongue and stale air settling on his skin, he told FP he was dating Archie, that's where he kept going at night. The whole time his heart had been beating in his throat, he didn't know how his father would react, he didn't know his father very well back then, he still doesn't. FP had taken the news with a neutral expression when all the words were said he wrapped his knuckles against the doorframe and told Jug to be safe and if he wanted the trailer to himself just give some warning. Jughead let out a shaky breath of relief, a small smile playing on his lips, he and Archie never did get a chance to try out the sofa though.

Today there was no heat to be found, the air is frigid, chilling to the bone even though Jughead has layers on. FP ventures further into the room, sitting at the end of the bed, struggling to find the right words to say. He never could express how he felt easily; Jug had always taken it to be part of his nature, he is stoic and rough around the edges with a fiery temper and a penchant for messing up. Jug is more like his mother, a rational thinker, a quiet-spoken soul who will protect those he loves fiercely, but he has felt his father's anger before, and he looks more and more like him each year.

He wants to be better than his parents; he wants to leave Riverdale, go to college and find a new place to make his own, leave behind the judgement and the whispers that follow him. One day he'll take Archie's hand, and they will leave. This day and all the rest to follow will be memories, stories to tell when they go to bed at night. He doesn't want to end up like the lost boys or Jason, doesn't want to miss out on all his tomorrows, all  _their_  tomorrows.

"Hey," Jughead says to break the silence "what brings you to my fortress of solitude?"

The corner of FP’s lips quirk into a grin, “I came to see how you’re feeling.”

“I’m alright” he shrugged, “head still kinda hurts.”

“You were never very good at sports, were you?”

“Nope, you should have had a son like Archie if you wanted someone to play football” he knows he isn’t the son his father wanted, he was too strange, too interested in books and staying in the shadows. He liked to think it was better being different to the other boys of Riverdale with their gold and blue varsity jackets and perfect attendance records. He never knew the things that made him unique would entice such evil. But the varsity jacket, the scholarship, the money and proud parents didn’t save Jason Blossom.

"Jughead, I don't need you to play football or like girls or going to parties, you're my son, and I'm proud of you. You're going to make something of yourself one day, you're smart enough to get out of this town, and I want that for you."

This is the most open and honest his dad has ever been with him; he can't help but smile, feel a sense of affection thaw the ice in his veins. He can't help but think of the future; he is terrified that he won't have one, that he will vanish just like the others, taken by a monster no one can catch. The tears come without warning, fears he has been holding tight to for weeks rise to the surface, breaking him down. He hunches forward, burying his face in his hands to hide the tears, failing to hold back the sob that unleashes wave after wave of emotions.

He cries for all he has endured; he cries for the lost boys and the few loved ones who never got to see them again. He cries for Jason who was going to be a father, for Polly who lost the person she loved. He sobs and breaks, all the pieces that had been painstakingly stuck in place shatter, rain down around him, stripping him of his armour,  _his strength_. Strong, calloused hands ease the hands from his face, he looks through blurred eyes at his father, seeing the helplessness flicker in his eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, voice soft and gentle, the way it used to be when he was a child and his world had yet to fall apart.

“I’m fine” he lies, trying to make the tears stop. “I’m just tired.”

“Jug, c’mon, talk to me” he pleads. “I don’t expect you to be fine, not after everything you’ve been through.”

That does it, FP's words break his last shard of resolve, and he collapses into his father's embrace, feeling Luna purr against his stomach. "I'm scared all of the time" he confesses. "I know  _he’s_  still out there and I am so afraid that he’ll come back for me, that he’ll finish what he started.”

“No one’s taking you again, bub” he vowed, holding him tight. “Keller might have stopped looking, but I swear to you Jughead I will tear this town apart until I find who did this to you.”

Jughead eases back, brushing away tears on the sleeve of his favourite green sweater “You’ve been looking?”

"Every day since Keller shelved the case" he admitted. "I didn't want to tell you. I need you to focus on getting better and" he lowered his gaze, shame clouding his eyes, "You were right, it was my fault, I should have picked you up after the movies, you are my responsibility, and I failed to protect you."

"It's not your fault, dad" he reassured, he didn't believe that, never truly did, he had been marked long before he left the Bijou, darkness had been following him since the day he came into this world, it was only a matter of time until it came for him. "Do you have any leads?" his dad has connections, he could easily sway information from unwilling mouths, find ways to make even the most reluctant person talk.

"Nothing concrete" he replied "is there anything you can remember? I know it's painful, but we're chasing dead ends here, bub."

He still doesn’t remember much, only fragmented memories of darkness punctured by the neon red motel sign and the fluorescent bulb of the lamp he couldn’t see. There are flickers of a face hovering in the dark, gleaming white like that of a china doll's, eyes shadowed, hair covered in a plastic hood that reflected in the light, so he couldn’t tell what hair colour he had. He remembers blinding hot pain, fear choking him, racing through his bloodstream like gasoline. He remembers crying, screams muffled by threads, body quivering from the pain and repressed sobs.

He has jagged memories of being undressed, of gloved hands, running affectionately over his naked flesh, rising higher to where they weren't allowed to touch and by some miracle they diverted their route, reaching for a knife instead of defiling him. This would not help his father, only further enrage him, his memories might remain missing, but the lost boys had more to share. He couldn't tell his father what he knew, couldn't reveal the board in the back of his wardrobe with the names and faces of the lost boys. Anyone in their sane mind would think he was crazy, the only reason Archie believed him was because they were connected so profoundly.

“I remember being in pain and feeling so cold” he reveals, voice unsteady. “I didn’t see anything that could help me identify him in a crowd or a line-up. When he spoke, his voice was muffled by the mask, and I was disorientated from the drug, so I wouldn't be able to recognise it if I heard it again. I was so scared. I didn't know what he was capable of."

FP cups his face, sweeping away a stray tear. "Jug I need to ask you something" he struggles to find the words, he grips tightly to his son's hand. "The doctors couldn't find any evidence of…" he pauses, gritting his teeth "of sexual assault but I need to know if he did anything like that to you?"

"No!" he exclaims, feeling sick as the memories that are not his own rattled through his head. "No, dad, nothing like that happened." There is a strange sinking feeling in his gut, the distorted image of hands slipping over his bare flesh flicker in the back of his mind, but he shoves it away, swallowing the bile in his throat. He wouldn't tell his father how for a few terrifying moments he thought the gloved hands would venture further, would touch where they were not allowed to touch. He shakes the thoughts from his head, letting out a shaky breath.

“Okay, I’m just making sure” he holds his hands up in defence. “I need to know everything, Jug.”

“I’m telling you everything” he promises, sagging in the chair, body and mind growing weary. “I don’t remember much, okay and I don’t want to remember.”

"I understand," he said, pausing in through before asking "why don't you come stay at the trailer with me tonight? We can order pizza and watch a movie, huh? It's been too quiet without you around."

“Yeah?” Jughead’s lips quirk into a small smile, thinking a night with his father would be nice, a reprieve from the chaos in his mind. He looks down at the kitten sleeping on his lap, her warmth seeping through his jeans, he strokes her silky fur, looking up at his dad to ask, “can Luna come too?”

“Sure” he smiled, ruffling Jug’s raven locks. “I’ll let Fred know. Why don’t you pack some things and I’ll meet you downstairs?”

“Ah, can we leave once Arch gets home from school?” he had to see him first, they had to talk to Betty, find out what she knew about Polly.

FP rolls his eyes, smirking “ah, to be young and in love.”

“I need to get my homework from him” he defended, failing to hold back the smile “I’m not that bad.”

"It's fine, Jug" he reassured, rising to his feet and moving towards the door "I'm going to call Fred, take it easy okay, kiddo? That eye of yours isn't looking too great."

"Thanks, dad" he called after him, feeling lighter than he did at the start of the day, only nightfall was just around the corner and in the dark, there were monsters.

**~X~X~X~**

The trailer creaks in the wind, walls stretching and shaking off the day, the tin roof shifts under the weight of the snow, a dogs’ bark echoes on the wind. Jughead sinks further into the covers, Luna has crawled under and is purring softly at his side. It's late, and the bedroom is cloaked in darkness. The evening had been peaceful, he ate pizza with his father while they watched Home Alone, well his father watched the movie, Jug was too busy chasing thoughts around his head.

There was a tangled web of murder and mystery to be unravelled; there were lost boys hovering in the shadows, watching, demanding to be heard. Adrian's memories seeped into his mind, painting gruesome pictures of misery and torture. From the fragmented memories, he could piece together the horror story, projecting himself back through time to stand in the cold, dank basement that the lost boys had been held captive in.

Wren remembers a leaky pipe that drove him made. Caleb refuses to think about what was done to him, every time he tries his body convulses like there is an electric current running through his veins. It's best he forgets. Alex remembers a sharp knife digging into the soft flesh of his face and blinding him; the wound bled so much that he thought it would never stop. Adrian recalls the small window above where he slept, sometimes deer walked by, and he imagined them smashing through the glass, and he'd climb out and be lead to safety. Their memories are heart-wrenching, days, weeks, months of loneliness and round the clock torture and assault.

They wasted away, food and water were given sparingly, whenever  _he_  tortured them their lips were sewn shut, so many screams going unheard. Alex was held captive the longest; he made it three months when one day he managed to escape by tricking The Collector. He always wanted to be an actor, and his last performance was Oscar-worthy. He played the part perfectly, creating the illusion that he had grown docile, that he would do whatever was asked of him as long as he could feel sunlight against his skin for the briefest of moments.

It took time, but eventually, Alex was granted freedom from the grey, blood-stained basement he was held in. He was thinking of escaping, of running towards the road where he would flag down a car, and a kind stranger would emerge and whisk him away to safety. He wanted to live until he saw his face, until he saw how ugly the scar that had left him half blind was. It was despair; it was months of being broken and hurt in unmanageable ways that had him running towards the train tracks, the brilliant white the first sign of salvation he had seen in years.

It’s these memories and thoughts that are keeping Jughead awake, all that he could have endured is flashing through his mind and tumbling him towards panic. He reaches for his phone, drowning out the racing thoughts with music, breathing deeply as the melody calms him. He listens to the songs that make him think of Archie, of the summer they fell in love. He wants to turn back the clock, find the days blistering hot and the nights humid and perfect for late night dips in Sweetwater River. He wants to find himself tangled up in Archie’s arms, free of anxiety and voices that are not his own.

He cannot unravel time, he can only hold tight to the beautiful memories and let them carry him away, but even they are not strong enough to withstand the call of another lost soul. A song plays beneath the one he is listening to, Ed Sheeran's vocals getting lost in deep, dark melody. Something makes him remove his hearing aids, the night is silent, no creaks or groans or dogs barking, he places the headphones back over his ears, and he hears the song perfectly. Not the Ed Sheeran song Archie liked to sing to sing to Jug to cheer him up, but some obscure metal band that he'd guess was from the eighties. 

He listens, time shifts, sending him back years to a quiet street in the dead of night. There has been snow recently; it's melting on the footpaths, slipping from gutters to form piles of grey slush. Sam Bennet fixes his headphones in place, tucks his hands deep into his pockets and trudges towards home. If he hurries, he will make it back before his aunt finishes her late-night shift at Pop's. He was meant to be home hours ago, but he chose to stay until the show was over, the band wasn't even that good, but the guy who flirted with him made it worthwhile.

He can't wait to tell his sister about him; she is the only one who he can be open with. If his aunt knew she'd send him away. Effy would never tell, she knew he wasn't broken or wrong, he liked boys, and that was that. He is listening to a mixtape that he made the day before and feels good for the first time in a while. It's been difficult ever since their parents died, but tonight, under the dim street lights and surrounded by melting snow he feels hopeful. Sam doesn't hear the footsteps, doesn't think to turn around even when a voice tells him to, he is halfway home when he is taken.

Sam Bennet, missing from Riverdale in 1982, he was never found, missed only by his sister.

The bedroom and chilly night shift back into focus, Jughead is suspended in silence, trembling from the memories. He wished he was back at Archie's; he'd sneak into his room and crawl into bed beside him. He slips under the covers, holding Luna close to his chest, the vibration of her purrs soothing his fragile nerves. How many more boys will come out of the shadows, how much more of this can he take? He is growing weak, mind splintering. 

He needs to hold on; he will talk to Betty tomorrow, as he was never given a chance today, she and Veronica disappeared from school. He can only imagine they had gone looking for Polly, that Betty had found a new lead and left at that very moment, chasing answers the way he chased lost boys. If he can find Jason Blossom then he can find the others, though he knows exactly where he is, but Sweetwater runs for miles, and he could be anywhere. No, not anywhere, in Crystal Lake, the vision earlier showed him exactly where he needed to go only he'd failed to see it. To remember.

Crystal Lake, where no one really went, because it was on the southside and that made it a place for reckless, wild youth, not apple pie families. It’s where the rowdy teenagers had parties, did drugs and drank stale, flat beer for kegs before diving naked into the waters, having to be careful or else the sharp rocks would cut their feet. Crystal Lake was where the current led Jason’s body and under the frozen surface, sealed in a watery grave was where he would stay until the warmer weather thawed the ice and some poor soul would find his bloated, decomposing corpse. Unless Jughead found him first.

He is pulled from the bed without warning, strings tugged by an outside force that does not care that it is too cold outside. There is a voice of reason trapped in the recess of his mind that says this can wait, that there is a safer way, but perhaps Jason Blossom has taken control of his limbs and is forcing him out the door. He was selfish in life, and he is selfish in death. There is a distant echo of the others, trying to make him stop, make Jug return to the safety of his bed, but Jason is stronger, he moves him through the snow, through the woods to the edge of the lake. 

Jughead cannot feel how cold he is as he walks across the ice, socked feet unsteady on the surface, there is just the voice screaming FIND ME over and over, drowning out all thought and reason. Jason has slipped into his skin, curls his knuckles into fists and brings his hands down towards the ice; only it does not meet the shiny black surface. Jughead is pulled back, forcing Jason out of his body as he hears his name echo on the wind, though he isn't wearing his aids, so he isn't sure how he can hear Archie. Slowly he turns, shivering violently, to face the shore, Archie is a silhouette holding a flashlight, screaming his name.

Archie has found him, he followed the red string binding them together and saved him from death once again. Jughead takes a tentative step towards the shore, towards the light guiding him home but the ice shudders. He freezes, the ice splinters and cracks, panic roars to life in his chest and as his name, which he shouldn’t be able to hear so clearly, reaches him on the wind the ice breaks and he plummets into the darkness.

He falls down, down, down into the dark, landing in a place he does not know. He is not suspended in the oily black waters of the lake, he is standing at the foot of a once grand staircase, but time and neglect have left the bannisters rotten and the steps hazardous. The black and white checkered flooring at his feet is covered in layers of dust and dirt; the only light comes from the broken, cobweb riddled chandelier that hangs high above his head. This is a place of shadows and forgotten things; upstairs holds horrors no one should ever see, and the basement is filled with memories and echoes of screams that were never to be set free.

This is where  _he_  took them; this place would have been the last thing Jughead ever saw. He knows this the way he knew where Jason's body was and the way he knows the sound of Archie's heartbeat. Upstairs he'd find the lost boys, outside in the waking world this desolate house sits untouched and undisturbed, the perfect place for a mass grave. A prison for all the lost boys. He is too afraid to venture further. He cannot see into the darkness at the top of the stairs, and the light is flickering, bulbs bursting, leaving him alone in the dark. He must go back, can feel hands against his chest, air forcing into his lungs and a rib cracking as Archie tries to save his life.

The front door opens, a sliver of light piercing the darkness, he walks towards it and steps back into the waking world.

**~X~X~X~**

It was quarter past eleven when Archie felt the panic stir to life in his chest, the sense of danger creeping up his spin. He knew by now what these feelings meant, what he had to do. Without hesitation he threw off the covers, dressing in a hurry before racing downstairs. His father was still up, sitting at the island reading over some documents for work, he looked up when Archie reached the bottom of the stairs, heading towards the stand where his father kept the keys for the truck. He thought about snatching them up, right in front of him and racing out of the house but the roads were slippery, he’d be of no use to Jughead if he crashed on the way to save him.

He is grateful his father didn't stop him or think he'd gone mad, or perhaps he did, but he was too afraid to tell him at that moment. Archie didn't care, they took off, following the invisible tether leading him all the way to Crystal Lake. He found Jughead standing in the centre of the lake, he thought everything would be okay, Jug would snap out of his daze and walk back to the shore and collapse into his arms. They’d go home, and Archie would cuddle with Jug in bed to thaw his bones, but the ice shuddered, sending Jughead into the murky waters below.

Archie didn't care for his safety as he rushed across the ice, peering into the darkness, heart pounding in his chest. It was the longest few minutes of his life, he couldn't see Jug in the oily black water, his father was screaming at him from the shore, and he was so close to diving in after Jughead. But he didn't need eyes or light to see Jughead, he could find him without sight, he just had to surrender to the feeling building in his chest. He walked five steps to the right, kicked through the ice, reached into the frigid waters and grasped hold of Jughead, heaving him to safety.

He wasn't breathing.

Archie couldn't stop crying as he performed CPR, it feels like he hasn't stopped crying even though it's been an hour and he is dry and bundled up in blankets, and Jughead is breathing, is  _alive_. They are in a trauma room at Riverdale Memorial Hospital; Jughead is wrapped in layers of blankets, shivering, struggling to stay awake. Fred wanted to take Archie home, but he can't leave Jug while he is like this, he looks so lost, so scared. Everyone looked at Jug like he's gone mad when he told them through rattling teeth that he found Jason Blossom’s body in the lake, but they stilled called the Sheriff, and once Jason was discovered they’d know he isn't crazy.

FP sits on the opposite side of the bed, drinking his third cup of coffee, eyes never leaving Jughead’s trembling frame. Archie can only imagine FP has a thousand questions, but Jughead is too tired and cold to answer them right now and Archie isn't sure he should say anything. They can say he sleepwalked, that he somehow made it to Crystal Lake and fell through the ice and in the frigid waters he saw Jason Blossom’s. To tell them he was led by an outside force, that there are dead boys in his head, would only get him committed, he'll protect Jughead no matter what.

Jug's eyes are fluttering shut, Archie prods him gently, trying to keep him awake, glassy eyes open wide for the briefest of seconds. He feels awful keeping Jug awake, but until his body temperature is back to normal, he must stay conscious. He runs his fingers through Jug's messy curls, offering what little comfort he can, it's going to be a long night, but he's not going anywhere. It takes another half hour until Jug is moved into a private room, FP offers to drive Archie home, but he isn't leaving, he can't stand the thought of it.

The kind middle-aged nurse who is looking after Jug for the night says he can stay, he is given a foldout bed to sleep in, but he spends the night curled up next to Jug. No one gets much sleep that night, and when the sun rises in the morning, everyone is exhausted. Jughead had stopped shivering sometime before dawn, he looks better but not by much, the lost boys are making him weak, draining his energy and Archie wishes he could share his, the way he shared his warmth last night. He would do anything to help carry the burden, but Jug is alone in this, he is connected to the boys by the scars on his back and the cruel things done to them in the night.

He'll never know what they've been through, can only play the caring boyfriend and support Jug through this. He hopes its enough, that he is enough. FP leaves to get another coffee at quarter past seven and stretch his legs, Archie takes the opportunity kiss Jug tenderly on the cheek, cradling him tight against his chest. Jug always fits perfectly in his arms, their edges slotting together to form the perfect puzzle, today he feels a little bony, muscles tight from tension.

“You’re safe Juggie” he whispers, presses a trail of soft kisses from his jaw to his temple. “I’ve got you.”

"I know" he whispers back "I'm just so tired. Before Jason forced me to the lake, another lost boy appeared and every time I find another I feel myself getting weaker. Their memories play through my mind, and I feel everything that happened to them, and I can't take it much longer. We need to find  _him_ , Archie, they are in so much pain, I am in so much pain."

Archie feels tears prickle the corner of his eyes, heartbreaking at the agony in Jug's voice, "We will Jug. I will talk to Betty today, okay? I have this feeling that if we can solve Jason's murder, then it will somehow lead us to the others."

"Yeah, I have the same feeling" Jughead replied, moving closer, seeking more warmth. "I don't know how they are connected, but they are somehow."

“We’ll figure this out” these words have become familiar on his tongue, he repeats them over and over but still believing in them. “Just rest today, okay. Sleep and stay warm, I’ll take over the investigation until you are well.”

"I'm the one with the voices in my head Archie; I don't think I get a day off."

"Well today you do" he sealed his words with a kiss, Jug's lips were dry and cracked, he made a mental note to bring him a Chapstick by this afternoon. "Please, Jug, just take it easy, okay?"

“Okay, but only because I love you.”

“I love you too” Archie kissed him again, before forcing himself to get up, “I’m going to head home and call Betty, what was the name of the new lost boy? I’ll add him to the board.”

"Sam Bennet. He went missing in 1982" he answered, "Thank you, Arch."

“Hey, what are boyfriends for?” he forced a grin, trying to lighten this dismal morning. “I’ll come back tonight, rest, okay?”

"Yes, okay," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Archie kissed him once more, savouring the moment, needing to cherish every second between the storms, holding tight to their love to get them through the dark.

**~X~X~X~**

Jughead's sleep is plagued by dreams of the abandoned house, the oily black waters of Crystal Lake and a cold, dank basement that smells of fear and blood. The images twist together, jerking him from one lonely, dark place to another. There is no escape. Memories blur together, creating a horror show that has no end, not until he screams, the force exploding into the air like a shock wave. He gasps, struggling to refill his burning lungs. His shrill wail has brought attention, doctors and nurses are hovering, eyes wide in shock, in horror, he knows by now that his screams sound otherworldly.

They are too blind to see that he isn't entirely human anymore, that something has awoken inside of him and its growing, changing into something he is afraid of. There is a spiral crack in the window that wasn’t there before, God; he did that. He promised Archie he would rest, but he can't. He didn't get the chance to tell Archie about the house in the woods, the desolate manor that holds the souls of the lost boys. It is real; it is made of brick and timber, it's falling to ruins somewhere in the forest, it's holding tight to its secret and bodies.

There must be a way to channel his powers, to focus them and follow the invisible tether to the manor the way Archie follows the red string to him. He can only try, he takes a deep breath and just as he is about to shut his eyes the door swings open and his father and Sheriff Keller step through. Jason has been found; he doesn't even need to ask to know this. The feeling ripples through him, that of relief, of hope for justice, hope for freedom. Jason Blossom may have risked Jug’s life last night, but in this moment, he knows he didn't do it out of selfishness, he did it because he was desperate.

Jason is standing by the window, dripping wet, face gaunt and skin tinged blue from weeks of being trapped in the river, he is trying frantically to share something, but Sheriff Keller is demanding answers. Jason vanishes in a tangle of black smoke, the effort of taking control last night has left him weak. Jughead returns his attention to Keller, not liking the accusation in his tone, the coldness in his eyes. He never showed him compassion, not even when he had to reveal the horrible things he remembered. Keller doesn't care that he failed to catch the person who tortured him, he doesn't know he is letting a serial killer slip through his fingers.

"I told you," Jughead says, trying to swallow the fear "I was sleepwalking, and when I fell through the ice I found Jason."

“Pretty convenient story Mr Jones” he doesn’t believe him, why would he? But is he thinking the worst? That he killed Jason? “But I’m not sure I’m buying it.”

“Are you accusing my son of something?” FP demanded, anger colouring his words. “Because I’d think twice before you did.”

"I am just saying something isn't adding up and if you know something you need to tell me." He attempts to sound compassionate, but Jughead doesn't buy the lie, they want a scapegoat, and he isn't going to give them one.

"Jughead wasn't even in town when Jason went missing" FP snaps. "I think you've asked enough questions, so why don't you go do your damn job and find out who actually killed Jason."

"I'll be in touch," he says, giving Jughead a stern look. He will be back, even if a lead points somewhere else he will still return and place the blame on him until the killer is standing right before him confessing to the crim. Jughead fights back a swell of emotion, holding back tears, he doesn’t want Keller or his father to see him cry.

"I won't let them pin this on you, Jug" FP vows. "God, you've been through enough" he collapses into the chair at his bedside, burying his head in his hands.

"I know, dad" he touches his arm, taking his calloused hand into his own, lending and taking strength. "I have an alibi; I'll be fine.” Jughead isn’t sure he believes his own words, this town is quick to judge, to pin crimes on the innocent and let the guilty walk free.

His dad smiles, it doesn't reach his eyes, and Jughead feels his stomach twist, a cold sensation seeping through his veins. There is an untold story in his dad's gaze, something deep and dark that he's never spoken of before. He swallows the fear, holding tighter to his dad's hand, wishing he could see into his mind, find the hidden memories and discover what he is hiding. He could ask, but he knows his dad will brush him off, will say it's nothing when clearly there is a story to be told. He won't pry the words from his dad's lips, he has already pushed the thought away, and Jughead wonders if it was ever there.

He shouldn't start doubting himself now; he can see lost souls and crack windows with his scream, seeing a painful memory reflected in his dad's eyes is nothing. He wants to tell him about the lost boys, he wants to reveal the truth about how he found Jason, but he holds his tongue. This isn't something he can share, not with his father who doesn't believe in anything that he cannot touch, taste and see. He is growing tired; he lets go of his father's hand and curls up under the covers, drifting into a dreamless sleep. 


	8. Where the Lonely Ones Roam

Every night Jughead finds himself at the bottom of the imposing staircase, staring up into the darkness, shivering in the cold as a draft billows through the house, sounding like a ghost’s wail. He should venture into the darkness, navigate the hazardous steps and make his way to the landing above, where he can feel eyes peering down from. Something keeps him from moving, be it fear of the things he’ll find or an invisible tether holding him tight to the spot.

He tiptoes through the dining room with its twelve-seater table that would have once been gleaming mahogany but is now caked in dust and death. The chairs still sit around the table, the candelabra sits in the centre collecting spiderwebs, the candles melted with the passage of time. This place has been vacant for years, whoever once owned the manor left in a hurry, leaving behind expensive furniture and striking if not somewhat creepy paintings and sculptures. There is nothing personal among the debris and ruin, there are couches with their stuffing leaking from gapping wounds, as if someone took a sharp knife to them and slit them open, there old fashioned led light lamps with their multi-coloured glass cracked and shattered on the floor. The walls are rotten, floral wallpaper peels of in stripes, crimson red paint flacks off and settles on the floor like snow. 

It's a place of ruin; it should be demolished, the ground flattened and given back to nature. But it's not the broken furniture and haunting artwork that makes the manor feel so uninviting; it's not the overgrown branches scrapping at the boarded-up windows and rats scurrying around that make it feel so alive. It’s the trapped souls walking the halls, following the same footsteps over and over as they try to no avail to find an escape. It’s the boys who move in the shadows, behind torn and moth-eaten curtains, making themselves known but never coming out to say hello.

Something is keeping them from stepping out; Jughead doesn't know what, they are happy to share their memories and pain in the waking world but there is more going on here than he can see. If only he could find the courage to ascend the stairs, to discover what is hidden up there. Until he is allowed or until he is brave enough, he is left to explore the desolate remains of the first floor. Every night he finds himself standing at the bottom of the once grand staircase, fear or invisible hands keeping him from rising into the dark.

He is afraid to face their memories, face all the things that could have been done to him. Every night he dreams of the house, he finds himself wandering through the manor, in search of things he is yet to understand. What he does know is this is where the lonely one’s roam, this is the house of pretty, broken things. The prison for all the lost boys and Jughead is the only one who can set them free.

**~X~X~X~**

Everyone in town is talking, Jason Blossom’s murder is hot on everyone’s lips, from the kids sitting in booths at Pop’s all the way to those living in luxury at the Pembroke. They all want to know who killed the beloved son of Clifford and Penelope Blossom, the golden boy whom they cheered for at every game. The Blossom’s want answers, they have become ruthless in their hunt for blood, they are pointing fingers, placing blame and suspicion, which is spreading like a deadly disease.

There is hostility as Jughead moves through the school hallways, head bowed and shoulders tense as he waits for the next hateful comment, the next finger pointing in his direction. He found the body, that was enough to make him guilty, to have the rumours spreading like wildfire. Jughead Jones killed Jason Blossom for revenge. He killed him as some sort of devil worship. He did it for fun, for the thrill of it and Archie helped. They did it together. He forced Archie to do it. Archie killed Jason, and he helped get rid of the body. The rumours were colourful, full of twisted tales that painted him and at times Archie to be cold, blooded killers.

It didn't matter that a few short weeks ago he was kidnapped and tortured, they had already forgotten, the kids of Riverdale saw him how they wanted to see him. The lonely, weirdo from the wrong side of the tracks that kept wandering into the woods and screaming like a banshee. His behaviour was not seen as trauma from what he endured, but an admission, a mind unravelling from guilt, from too many drugs, from selling his soul to the devil. If Sheriff Keller and the Blossom's didn't start questioning other people, then he fears this school will hang him for his crime, Archie too and that is not acceptable. They can drag him through the mud, call him names, but he won't allow them to speak so cruelly about Archie.

It’s why he must find who killed Jason, he is the only one who can, the lynch mob is getting hungry, soon they will be knocking at the door. In order to solve this, he must first learn how to control his powers; they are getting stronger, he feels them hum beneath his skin, the ever-present scream sitting heavy in his lungs. If he can identify what he is then maybe, _hopefully_ , that will lead him in the right direction to discovering ways to control his abilities. 

It's a cold, dismal Saturday morning; it's been three days since he discovered Jason's body and the funeral is being held tomorrow at Thornhill Manor. The Blossom’s are finally allowed to bury their son after they were reassured there was no more evidence to be found on the body. He and Archie are tucked away in a quiet corner of the Southside Library, reading through books on the supernatural, combing through true crime novels and drinking coffee and Mountain Dew like it’s going out of fashion.

The southside library has an extensive collection on serial killers and the paranormal; the floor around them is covered in books and notes. Jug is glad he isn't going through this alone, he's getting weaker, the visions stronger and the dreams more frightening. He needs to locate the manor, it must exist in this world, he is sure of it, but Riverdale is full of abandoned places, is surrounded by dense woods, and it could be anywhere. He has to pick one battle at a time and right now he must discover what he is then he can find a way to communicate with Jason, get him to reveal who killed him.

Jason hasn't appeared since his body was found, Jug knows he's still there, can feel his presence in the back of his mind, but when he took control the other night it left him weak. Jason isn't trapped in the house like the others; maybe his limbo is the frigid waters of the lake and it's where he'll stay until he has regained enough strength or Jughead travels to him. He isn't diving back into the lake if he can help it, he is lucky he still has all his toes and fingers and that his dad didn't have a heart attack from stress. He can't help anyone if he is dead, so he'll bury his nose in books, search every weblink he comes across.

“I think I found something” Archie announces a little too loud for a public library, but no one is around to scold him.

“What is it?” he sets the book he was reading aside, focusing on Archie, there is a sliver of light reflecting in his hair, making it appear like flames are dancing upon his head.

“Okay, so at first, I thought you were a banshee, but apparently, they can only be female,” he explains, words hurried with excitement “but you still have some aspects of them. So, I found another meaning for banshee, and it doesn't perfectly sum up what you are, but I don't think there is anyone else like you-"

“Arch, breathe” Jughead ordered, touching his shoulder, the beam of light disappears as clouds blot out the sun.

“Sorry” he takes a deep breath, exhaling the tension from his chest and shrugging out the kinks in his shoulders, they have been here for over two hours, and Archie isn't good at sitting still. He takes Jug's hand, turning so they are face to face, knees brushing “You’re a harbinger of death, Jug.”

There is silence; Jughead rolls the words on his tongue, they taste like ash, sit heavy in his throat. “A harbinger of death” he repeats, voice sounding strained, words sharp and unusual in his mouth, "I think I would prefer banshee to be honest."

“I know it sounds kinda scary but it’s not a bad thing, Juggie” Archie reassures, sensing the shift in Jug’s mood, warm hands move up to cup his face, bringing him in for a tender kiss. "You're a superhero Jug" he declares. "Your powers are going to get stronger; you are going to save lives that no one else could. It says you'll learn to predict death, imagine that? You could save someone before anything bad happened to them. Your scream is a warning, a way to focus and a weapon, you're cooler than Batman."

Jughead laughs, it's a watery chuckle, but the words have dried the tears threatening to spill. “Yeah, well that makes you my Robin.”

“I’m serious Jug.”

“I know, Archie” he sighed, resting his forehead against Archie’s as he spoke. "I never expected my life to be like this. I miss summer. I miss when we were camping under the stars and learning what it was like to be more than friends. I miss sneaking out to make out by Sweetwater river; I miss feeling happy and light. It felt like the summer was never going to end, and we'd always be in this frozen moment of bliss, laughing under a setting sun or tangled up in the sheets. I want to feel unafraid, to not have voices in my head making me feel and think things that don't belong to me. I want it just to be us again."

“It will be Jug” he promises, “we just have to get through this first, then it will get better. I won’t let you drown in the dark, Jug.”

“What did I do to deserve you?” he asked, feeling his lip quirk into a smile.

“I ask myself that every day.”

"I love you, Archie."

“I love you too, Jug” he kisses him again, slow, tender like they have all the time in the world, only they don’t, the clock is ticking, and they mustn’t be late.

Betty will be here soon; she asked them to come with her to Greendale yesterday after school. She has found Polly; she has been sent to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy by their parents, information her and Veronica learnt by going through Alice Cooper's address book the other day. Alice doesn’t know what Betty is up to; she would have a fit if she found out that her perfectly behaved daughter was sneaking off with the town’s resident weirdo and catching a ride with Kevin's mysterious southside serpent boyfriend.

“We need to get going, sadly” Archie adds, pouting, “though I could stay here and kiss you all day.”

Jughead smiled, feeling light seep into this dismal day, warmth flooding in his chest. "We can pick this up later?" he would happily spend the afternoon in Archie's arms, sharing lazy kisses as the day floated by. But they must rise on legs gone numb from hours of sitting, must shake off the weariness from their bones and make their way to the front desk where the librarian knows Jughead so well she even doesn't bat an eye at the books they borrow. Archie takes his hand as they step out into the frigid day, descending the steps to meet Betty who's just stepped out of a navy-blue jeep.

“Hey, Archie, Jug” she greats them, closing the door so Kevin and his boyfriend can’t hear her. “Thanks for doing this for me. I needed a ride, but I wasn’t sure how safe it would be getting one from a serpent, though Joaquin seems really nice, I guess I was being unfairly judgmental.”

"It's dangerous times, Betty," Jughead said. He doesn't blame her for being suspicious of a southside serpent, he's grown up around them and there are some FP won't let anywhere near him. This town is full of monsters; some look the part, dressed in leather and marked by tattoos, others are harder to find, they are concealed by suits, pristine houses and kind smiles. No one can be trusted, not at face value, Joaquin, however, is someone he knows well enough to trust. "But he's a good guy; I've seen him around with my dad at the Whyte Wyrm.”

“Yeah, he seems sweet” she smiled, “I’m happy for Kevin, he deserves someone nice.” She opened the door, ushering the boys in before following.

Greendale is a half hour drive from Riverdale; Jughead watches the spares woods roll by, fresh snow floats daintily from the sky, growing steadier as they near the edge of town. Betty goes alone to see Polly, Archie tries to convince her to let them come along, but she declines, needing to do this by herself, reluctantly he lets her go, watching her disappear into a gothic style building that looks even cold and uninviting than the manor from his dreams.

Kevin suggests they get something to eat and a few minutes later they are stepping into a hipster café that is mostly empty apart from a few teenagers and college students. Jughead ignores all the fancy flavoured coffees spread out over the festive board and orders his usual expresso and a toasted sandwich at Archie’s insistence that he must eat something. Feeling a little overwhelmed in the new surroundings and needing time to process this morning’s discovery, he picks a two-seater table in a shadowy corner to sit at, making it clear there is only room for Archie if he chooses to come over. He can feel Kevin’s eyes on him, can sense the judgement but he doesn’t care, he reaches into his bag instead, retrieving the book on How to Contact the Spiritual World.

He doesn't care what the couple at the table to his right might think; he isn't bothered by the waitress giving him a strange look as she sets his order down. These people will never see him again and if they do he doubts they'll remember him as the weird kid who ate alone and read about the paranormal. He is the paranormal, he is a harbinger of death, and that's a lot to take in. Just last month he turned sixteen, and when he blew out the candles on the cake that Betty baked for him he made a wish, but it certainly wasn't for this. He doesn't remember what he wished for, maybe for his dad to get sober or for his mum to come back.

He was sixteen and in love, was happy despite everything else that was going on. He felt like he belonged, he could walk through the school halls holding Archie's hand, he could go to homecoming, dance under the glittering lights and paper decorations with his boyfriend. He was so close to being just like everyone else, now he is so far away from the sunburnt boy who kissed his best friend under the stars. He is something else, a harbinger of death and he feels so very far from everyone else, like there is a line in the sand and they will never be able to cross it because they did not endure a night of torture, they did not become something ethereal in the dark.

But he isn't alone; the lost boys stand at his side, their pain is his pain, their memories are woven together. This town is where Caleb loved to visit, this town is where Adrian grew up, and he used to come here when it was just a stuffy café that sold the best maple pecan pies in town. Adrian is staring out the window; the streets have changed; the world is new and terrifying now. Caleb likes the changes, wants to try the fancy coffees and ask the cute waitress her name though he'd never pluck up the nerve. When she walks by Jughead catches sight of her nametag, Julz, it reads, she has curly strawberry blonde hair and kind eyes.

He orders a Cinnamon Latte for Caleb and a slice of pecan pie for Adrian. Archie slips into the seat opposite him, placing his hot chocolate and sandwich on the table, nudging Jug’s uneaten one towards him. He takes a bite, for Archie’s sake. Archie reaches for his hand, Jug can see the worry flickering in his amber orbs, dulling the usual shine, so he takes his hand and eats his food, tries to ignore Caleb and Adrian who have decided that the laptop a teenage girl is looking at is the most fascinating thing they’ve ever seen.

“You okay Juggie?”

“Yeah, just observing.” He finishes his sandwich just as Julz arrives with his pie and a mug overflowing with cream that is dusted with sprinkles. It catches Caleb's attention, he walks over, hovering until he takes a sip, nearly choking on the sweet liquid. "Oh God, why did I let you pick this?" 

“Who are you talking to?” Archie asked, brows knitted in concern.

"Caleb" he replied like it was the sanest thing to be communicating with the ghost of a boy who couldn't even talk back because his mouth was sewn shut. He looked happy though, Caleb was always rather cheerful for someone who was tortured and raped before eventually being murdered. Maybe it's because he refuses to remember, he holds tight to the boy who waited at the bus stop, ready for a new life, with big dreams and a bright future. Caleb won't let go of that moment, the way he felt free, skin humming in excitement, heart beating with joy.

"Oh" the concern fades from his face, he looks to Jughead's right, trying to see the boy that is standing there, gives up and looks at the mug instead. "Can I try it?"

“Knock yourself out” Jughead shoves it towards him, sticking his fork into the pie and taking a mouthful, it tastes delicious, just the way Adrian remembers, and Jug wonders if it’s a family recipe passed down through generations.

“I like it” Archie announces, whipped cream stuck to the tip of his nose. “What’s in it?”

“Coffee, cinnamon, milk and cream” he replied, “and I finally got you to drink coffee, I feel kinda proud.” He reaches across the table, brushing the cream off Archie’s nose.

“I thought the only kinda coffee you could get was the horrid stuff you drank.”

“It’s the only way to drink it” he takes a sip his expresso, savouring the bitterness “dark and bitter like my soul.”

“You are as sweet as this, Jug” Archie teases, tapping at the mug “I see through your bad boy exterior.”

"Oh, my bad boy exterior?" he laughs, feeling light, the heaviness in his soul evaporating in this fleeting moment. "Archie, I am a troubled soul. Can't you tell?" he gestures to the books, the lightness waning as the words on the page glare up at him. He is more than a troubled soul; he is haunted by the things done to him, burdened by the task that lies ahead, changed irrevocably by the thing he has become.

“Jug” Archie senses the shift, catches sight of pain in his eyes. “You’re amazing” he stated “and so strong and brave. I don’t want you to isolate yourself, okay? I can’t imagine what you are going through but just because there is a little more to you doesn’t mean I’ll stop loving you. I love all of you Jug, the good, the bad and the weird” he smiles, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

"I love you too Archie" he can't hold back the smile, the lightness trickles back in, wrapping around him and seeping into his veins. "This is just a lot to take in. I feel so different, not just because of what I am but by what I've been through. I need some time to process everything, and I'm not pushing you out, I just need to, God I don't even know" he trailed off, fighting back the tears an lump building in his throat.

"I get it Jughead; you haven't had time to deal with being taken. Instead, you've been so busy trying to figure out who took you and you're dealing with the lost boy's feelings on top of that, I can't imagine how exhausting it must be." He pauses, takes a deep breath then continues "Juggie, I think when all of this is over that maybe you should see somebody? Like a therapist? Or you don't have too. I just think you're going to have to face your trauma finally, and I will always be by your side, but you might need help that I can't give. Does that make sense?"

“Yeah it does” he sniffles, offering Archie a tired smile “and I’ll think about it, promise.”

“Okay” Archie picks up the coffee and takes another drink, managing to get cream on the tip of his nose once more. “This is really good.”

Jughead smiled, rolling his eye at Archie, he doesn't know what he'd do without him, he is his anchor, his light guiding him home through the raging storm. Outside the weather is turning, Caleb and Adrian vanish in inky black tendrils, a gust of breeze billows through the café, ruffling the pages of the book Jughead had left open on the table. The pages settle, revealing a section dedicated to astral projection. Here is his answer, a way to cross over to the other side and finally find what secrets lie in the depths of the house of the damned.

**~X~X~X~**

The trip to Greendale is derailed, Alice Cooper is informed that Betty is visiting but thankfully not before she can learn the truth, Polly never tried to hurt herself, her parents sent her away when they discovered she was pregnant and planning to run away with Jason. Jughead knew most of this; it had been killing him not being able to tell Betty that Polly is pregnant, but there was no way he could explain that to her. They didn't get the chance to see her after Alice arrived, she drove Betty home, and when Archie tried to check on her, he was sent away.

Betty would be okay, she was strong, and at last, she knew her sister was safe. Jughead couldn't do any more for her now; he'd see her tomorrow at the funeral and hopefully arrange a time for them to go over all the information they’d gathered. He hadn't gotten the chance; he'd been planning to meet at her at the Blue and Gold the other day only that was the night before he found Jason and things kept getting in the way ever since.

Now he must let go of all thoughts of Jason, Polly and Betty. He sinks into the warm water, removes his aids and sets them aside before submerging himself. He'd spent the afternoon learning about astral projection; it was no coincidence the book blew open to that page, they wanted him to find it. Crossing over to the other side sounded easy enough on paper, block out the surroundings, focus on breathing, release all thoughts and let go. Jughead wasn't so sure it would be that simple, he'd never slipped between words by will before, he is always pulled in like a tide going out to sea, left to drown in the raging waters.

Tonight, he can take control, can shake off his skin, this scarred and broken body and step into the in-between. Closing his eyes, he blocks out the moonlit bathroom; there is no sound to disturb him, he breathes deeply, feeling the water lap against his skin, the warmth seep into his bones. He lets go, he sinks down, down, down, slipping below the surface, falling, falling through the dark until he lands safely at the foot of the stairs.

Frigid air bites at his skin, the house creaks and shudders around him, alive and uncertain to find a new occupant standing on its floors. There is no force holding him back, he takes a tentative step forward, the stairs bend under the weight of his booted feet, but this is just a place of make-believe, he can't possibly fall. He ascends on steady feet, rising into the darkness, the cobweb-riddled chandelier does little to illuminate the way, the bulbs flicker and it sways in the breeze that creeps through the house.

It's a long climb, the foyer seems terribly far below, and he gets dizzy peering down over the splintered and rotting bannister. Collecting himself he turns around, moving further into the dark, trusting his instincts to lead him in the right direction. Lights flicker on as he makes his way down a hallway, the walls lined with framed portraits that have perished with time. This _place_ is not a house and it was certainly never a home, it's a sprawling mansion with nooks and crannies overflowing with secrets and horrors.

He follows the invisible tether, making his way through the once grand home to the east wing, where he finds a hallway lined with doors, and he knows beyond these days he’ll find shrines. Jughead's blood runs cold when he finds his name on the first door, the flickering light revealing Forsythe Pendleton Jones the 3rd carved in perfect cursive letters into the wood. The Collector had been planning to bring him here; he would have spent his last moments in this house of horrors after enduring weeks or months of torture.

Jughead pushes the door open to reveal an immaculate room, no sign of rot or debris or dust. It is a shrine, a single red-light bulb hangs from the ceiling, illuminating the walls that are covered in pictures of him. There is an image of him sitting across from Archie at Pop’s, one of him walking the streets and by Sweetwater River in the bed of his dad’s pick up, his and Archie’s bare skin glowing in the moonlight. _He_ has glimpsed into the most private and precious moments of Jughead's life, took snapshots of Jug sharing a kiss with Archie under a tree, stolen moments of them shedding their clothes and slipping under the covers. He knows where Archie lives, he has followed Jughead around town for months, and he never noticed, never felt the prickle of fear.

He feels sick, enraged at the thought of having his intimate moments with Archie documented for The Collector’s sick pleasure. He wants to destroy everything that is in this room, from the photos to the furniture that make it look like this room belongs to someone who would be willing to stay. There is no point in tearing the pictures from the walls, in slashing at the drapes and overturning the furniture, this version of the house doesn't really exist. He needs to keep moving; there are no answers to be found in here.

There are more shrines disguised as rooms decorated for teenage boys with walls covered in photos taken of unknowing models. _He_ watched them, learnt where they lived, who they knew and what they liked so he could tailor the rooms just to their likings. It's disgusting, this place is a doll house, and the lost boys are his toys, forced to do as he pleases, broken and beaten until they are tarnished then he snaps their bones and closes their doors forever. Seven years later he finds a new one, and the wicked cycle repeats, on and on until Jughead, the one who got away, who could, _would_ end this.

Jughead was the last, but he was not the first, the first is finally at his fingertips, name rough against his skin. Dean Harvey's room is the very last at the end of the wing, door sealed shut tightly from rust, from years of not being opened. Jug shoves at it, ramming his shoulder into the solid frame it but it does not budge. Dean does not want to come out and join the others, who linger in the hallway, eyes watching Jug's every move. He turns to face them, they shake their heads, eyes clouding with disappointment, with despair. Jug isn't giving up on them, he knows with a burning certainty that Dean can unravel the mystery, that if the door just opens all the secrets will spill out into the dark.

His body does not hold enough strength to break through the heavy oak door, but his lungs fill with air, body humming with energy as he opens his mouth and screams. It explodes into the air, a deadly shockwave blasting into the door, the hinges strain, the wood giving in and with all his might he channels everything he has into his lungs, to climb up his throat and shatter this damn door. The doorframe splinters, the door itself flying backwards into the room to collide loudly with the bedroom wall. Jughead collapses, the lost boys gather around him, keeping him upright as a figure stalks towards them.

Dean Harvey appears in the doorway, leaning casually against the wall, he is another doppelganger, dark hair, blue eyes, devil may care smile and clothes bought straight from goodwill. He looks at Jughead, smile fading from his lips, Jug finds it's strange that his lips are not sewn shut and he is about to speak when Dean grabs him by the collar of his shirt and lifts him into the air. The other boys back off, lowering the gaze, offering no help as Jughead tries to break free. Dean does not speak, he carries Jughead into his room, and like he is nothing more than a ragdoll he flings him towards the window where he crashes through and falls into the abyss with a scream.

He lands in the bath, choking on water and scrambling away from hands that are not there, throat sore like he really did use it to scream a door off its hinges. The bathroom is still cloaked in darkness; his cry didn't follow him into this world, which he is grateful for, he needs time to gather himself. He had been seeking answers only to find more questions, more horrors and a boy so angry and lost that he could not see that Jughead is only trying to help.

That he is the only one who can help.

All he has is a name, is a boy who's unwilling to accept his help. He hopes the others can shed light, share secrets if they had any to give. There is still so much to discover in the dark rooms of the house. For tonight he is exhausted, the water has turned cold and his skin pruned. He puts his hearing aids in and dries off, slipping into one of Archie's shirts and a pair of sweatpants. He isn't going to go chasing any more leads tonight; he's going to crawl into bed with Archie and Luna and get some much-needed rest. In the morning they will attend Jason Blossom's funeral, afterwards, he will return to the ever-going task at hand.

There is so much to do, so many leads to chase and there is a sense that time is running out.

**~X~X~X~**

Jason’s funeral is an elaborate, theatrical affair. Cheryl breaks down, most people think she is putting on a show, but Jughead knows her tears are true, her pain raw and real. When Penelope and Clifford speak about Jason their praise feels empty, their love hollow. Penelope sheds a single tear, her voice never wavers as she tells the audience of how talented and smart her son was, she speaks about the future he was robbed of, the grand and wondrous things he would have achieved if he had not been so cruelly taken. Clifford says very little, he pitches himself as a loving father who regrets travelling so much, wishes he spent more time with his son, but he was oh so proud of him.

They speak of Jason as if he was only as good as his achievements, his social status, there are no tales of childhood adventures, no warm memories that will be held close to heart, no cherished moments they wish to share. No one tells of the time Jason recused a puppy who was left abandoned in the woods; he knew he couldn't keep it, so he took it to the local shelter and visited her every day until she moved to a farm in Rosewood. No one speaks of the misadventures he and Cheryl had as children, times spent roaming the grounds of Thornhill Manor as they pretended to be adventurers looking for lost treasures.

Not even his friends knew of how he fell in love with Polly Cooper, she was beautiful and strong-willed and when he learnt he was going to be a father he knew they must leave. They were going to live at the farm in Rosewood, the one where Jason took the puppy all those years ago. Jason shared a glimpse of his true self for the first time, he sits to Jughead's right, sightless eyes staring at the podium, watching Reggie Mantle say a few words.

He can feel Jason's sadness, a swell of anger at being remembered for the things his parents wanted him to be, a good son, the star quarterback and the golden Blossom child. Jason wants to rage, to hug Cheryl as she weeps in Veronica's arms. He was going to come back for her; he knew how cruel their mother is to her, how their father thought she was dim-witted and would never amount to anything. He was going to return to Riverdale one day, make right his father's sins, steal the business right out from under him and turn it into something good.

Jason’s anger is so powerful it ripples through Jughead, he has to hold his tongue and breathe deeply as he makes his way from the parlour to one of the many living rooms where the wake is being held. Jason vanishes in the crowd; the anger seeps from Jug’s veins, he lets out a shaky breath, slipping into the shadows so he can regain composure. Stepping into the conservatory he makes his way towards the forest coated windows, staring out at the garden that is shimmering in fresh snow, a memory of making snowmen and snow angels rises in the back of his mind, and he can't help but reach out to press a hand against the cold glass.

Jason stars back at him from the other side; colour has returned to his eyes, brown orbs taking in sight for the first time in months. Colour slowly returns to his face, hair drying and bullet hole closing, leaving no scar behind. Jason is alive, skin pink and hair vibrant as flames, warmth radiates from his skin, the ice has melted away, the garden is alive, blooming with colour. They are walking by the rose bushes, Jason is dressed casually as he makes his way towards his Polly, who is radiant and so beautiful under the golden sun.

He greets her with a kiss; she tastes like lemonade and strawberry lip gloss. This is a frozen memory of a beautiful day before the storm, before their families tried to pull them apart. It's a glittering afternoon that Jason cherishes with all his heart. He shares it to lighten the day, to make Jug's soul sing and skin hum with memories of his summer, of his and Archie's glittery afternoons by the edge of Sweetwater river or under the covers, exploring each other's skin. Jason was taken from Polly; her world left colourless and hopeless, Jughead hopes to God he’ll never knows what a world without Archie feels like.

The colour bleeds away, warm sun growing cold as heavy grey clouds move lazily across the sky. Jughead shivers in the frigid air, looking around to discover he is no longer in the safety of the conservatory, but has he ventured out into the garden, is standing where Jason and Polly did in the summer. Shivering in the cold, he turns to hurry back inside, before his absence is noticed. He's crossing the threshold when Cheryl slips into the room, gliding towards the cherry red loveseat and gracefully sitting down, her dark eyes boring into him.

“Sleepwalking again” she does not sound cruel, though there is something unkind underlining her words.

“I needed some fresh air” he ventures closer, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso to strive off the chill from his bones. “How are you holding up?”

“Fantastic” she snarls “my brother is dead; my family hates me, my friends don’t understand me, so I am holding up fabulously.”

“I’m sorry, Cheryl” he sits beside her on the loveseat, making sure to give her space.

Her heavily mascaraed lashes flutter closed, "There is so much darkness in this house, Jughead." she whispers, “I can feel it in the walls; it’s a noose tightening around my neck, and I am too afraid to do anything about it."

Her eyes flutter open, glistening with fear and misery. "Maybe I've just grown used to it; this house has always made me feel like I am standing in a graveyard. I sense eyes watching me from the shadows; I see Jason's face when I sleep." Cheryl turns towards him, allowing him to see past the mask to the true girl inside, who is scared and alone. "I believe you, about Jason. I don't think you and Archie killed him" she pauses, studying him closely, it makes him feel uncomfortable. "There is something different about you, isn’t there?”

He wants to tell her yes, that he has seen Jason, that he is going to find who killed him, but the words won't leave his tongue. He doesn't trust her enough; this could all be an act, a big show to get him to admit something she'll use against him. "Yeah, it's called PTSD, someone tortured me, just in case you'd forgotten."

“I haven’t” she declared, ice mask slipping back into pace “but don’t think for one second your sob story will protect you from my parent’s wrath. I’d be careful if I were you, best to stop wandering into the woods Alice, you don’t want to fall down a rabbit hole you can’t crawl out of.”

Coldness rushes through him at her words; they are not a threat but a chilling warning, one he cannot heed. He must venture into the woods, regardless of the hungry beasts and the rabbits willing to lead him down dangerous paths. There is a house of horror standing in the woods, forgotten by time, taken by nature and he must give chase, must risk it all to find it. He has no choice but to follow the white rabbit into Wonderland.

**~X~X~X~**

Archie collapses onto the bed beside Jughead, outside the trees sway in the breeze, scraping against the windowpane like hungry beats wanting to get in. It's been a long day, the house is quiet in the late hours of the night, Fred had gone to bed hours ago, but he stayed up with Jug, couldn't sleep anyway because today has been emotionally overwhelming. It's just hitting him that Jason Blossom is gone, that his friend, who used to encourage him to be better at football and shout him to Pop’s after coach yelled at him for messing up, was gone. Was murdered by someone who walks these streets, who he might have once said hello to or passed by on his way to school. Today he laid a friend to rest, though he knows he is not yet at peace, not until Jughead can solve his murder.

Jughead, his best friend, the boy he loves came so close to joining Jason in the grave. He can't help but wrap his arms around Jughead's narrow waist, laying his head over his heart so he can reassure himself it's still beating. Jug has been through so much; all Archie wants is to protect him, is put an end to this nightmare that has become their lives. This isn't how they should be ending the year, chasing ghosts and killers, burying a friend and getting blamed for his death. They were not in town when Jason went missing, and that would have been enough to clear them of any suspicion had Jason's death not occurred a week later.

Archie had a solid alibi, he had been working for his dad that day, but Jughead had gone wandering into the woods to take pictures and get away from his father's drinking and the Serpents unpleasant company. He saw the way Mr and Mrs Blossom looked at him; they thought him capable of murder, they thought all kinds of horrible and untrue things about Jughead. It didn't take long for the rumour mill to spew out stories about Jug killing Jason in some sick act of devil worship or maybe it was for fun, a fucked-up initiation into the Serpents. Perhaps he just snapped, and anyone could be next. Some people said they killed him together, that they should hang for their crime.

The lynch mob was out, Jug was in danger, and Archie hated every second of it, hated knowing that they called him such awful things when only last month he'd been tortured, left for dead by a monster no one believed in. The only way to clear their names was to find the person responsible. There was help in the shadows, voices guiding Jug in the right direction and Archie would do whatever he could to help unravel the mystery.

Jughead is making notes, there are books spread out all around them, and Luna is playing with Jug's socked foot. He doesn't seem to notice; there is a faraway glint in his eyes, his hand gliding’s over a page in his notebook as he scribbles something. Eyes snap back into focus and Jug looks down at the page with a flicker of puzzlement. Archie sits up, peering into the notebook, whatever Jug had been writing is gone, covered by an image of a black iron gate that sits nestled in the heart of the woods, a dirt road leading off into the distance. The black iron curls above the gate like ivy, in the centre is an oval sign with a rose engraved above faded letters. It's like looking at a portrait, Jughead has conjured an image from his mind and bought it to life with such vivid detail.

“Another clue?” he asked, resting his head against Jug’s, his cheek feels cold and clammy.

“Yeah,” Jug replied, leaning into Archie’s warmth. “I don’t know whose memory it is, maybe Alex’s, from when he escaped.”

“Does he remember anything else?”

“No,” he sighs. “I only get snapshots half the time. If I’m lucky they can project home movies into my head and I relive everything with them” Jug shudders, Archie holds him tighter. “Their memories of being held captive are fragmented… the things they went through" he shudders again, Archie kisses his cheek, hoping to take some of the pain. "It was awful; it's best to let them forget."

“But what if their memories can help us find The Collector?” he pushed, he wants this to be over, for Jug to feel well and be happy and safe from the things lurking in the dark.

“He always wore a mask” Jughead’s watery eyes met his, “all the time so no one could ever see his face. He kept them silent, so they could not scream. He wanted to hurt them, to make them all the same, craft them into angels, into dolls for him to play with.” Jug shakes his head, untangles himself from Archie’s arms and begins to pace. “God, I’m sorry. I feel like I am losing my mind” he stops, drops his arms in defeat. “I’m trying to understand him, but I can’t! There is a pattern, that is clear but why kids like us?” he gestures to himself, “why the wings? The need to give us all the same scars, why the house, the creepy shrines?”

Archie rushes to Jug’s side, taking him into his arms, sensing that he was on the edge of hysteria. “Juggie, take a deep breath” he orders, breathing with him in encouragement. He wished he had the answers for Jug, that he knew why The Collector chose him, _why_ he needed to hurt him and the others. Jug has shared so many gruesome stories, told many tales of the pain the boys endured. It doesn’t make sense, any of it, but he knows in time they will find answers, that they will find the missing pieces of the puzzle and it will lead them to The Collector.

“Have you tried going back into the house?” Jug had only told him a little over an hour ago about how he used astral projection to step between this world and theirs. It made him sick to know The Collector had been watching them, taking pictures of them from the shadows, capturing their most intimate moments. As soon as he finds the house in this world he is going to burn every last photo, hell he’ll burn the whole place to the ground if he has to.

"Something's blocking me" he drops to the corner of the bed, Luna crawls onto his lap, and he strokes her silky black fur. "I think it's Dean."

“The jerk who threw you out the other night?”

“The very same” he flopped back on the bed, landing on books and papers. “I tried googling him, but the newspapers don’t go back far enough, or it was never important enough to be put in print in the first place.”

“We’ll go to the library tomorrow” Archie crawls onto the bed beside him, moving books and clippings so he can lie down. “Riverdale can’t hold onto its secrets forever, Jug.”

"No, it can't" he looked up at Archie, smiling softly "Can we just forget awhile? Pretend its summer again, and we don't have to chase ghosts?"

He grinned, leaning down to kiss Jug, a hand slipping under his shirt. They needed this, to centre themselves in the here and now, to share fervent sweet kisses and feel every inch of each other, to prove they were both still here, alive and able to love. "I like the way you think." He whispers against Jug's kiss redden lips "if this is what you're thinking?" he asked, always wanting to be sure in case he triggers a painful memory, or he has misread Jug's intentions.

Jughead kisses him deeply, wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing his body flush against Archie’s, Jug leads a trail of kisses to his ear, biting softly at his earlobe and whispering “This is what I want, Archie.”

**~X~X~X~**

Jughead wakes to the feel of Archie's arm draped over his side, can feel his chest pressed against the length of his back. For a few moments, it's just the two of them. It feels like the end of summer, when they were all so new to this, to each other and Jug would wake up in Archie’s arms and feel happy, safe. In the space between sleep and waking, he could almost pretend that time had unravelled, sending them back to before Jason Blossom went missing and before he was taken apart in the night. He holds tights to the bliss, to the feel of Archie's skin against his own, the soft breaths at the nape of his neck.

The moment is fleeting, vanishing from his grasp as his eyes flutter open and the day and all the darkness seeps back in. He sighs wearily, starting to feel uncomfortable with Archie pressed against his still tender back. Last night had been unexpected, he hadn't exactly been in the mood lately, and they didn't do anything other than share tender kisses, trace loving patterns on exposed skin and fall asleep in each other's arms. It was nice to lose himself in Archie, to find his head free of voices and visions, to feel only Archie's hands against his skin. It was a little sweetness inside this storm of chaos and pain, and he wished he could spend the rest of the day tangled up with Archie, but there is another boy to be found and time is weighing heavily against him.

He untangles himself from the covers, finding that they've slept in, the retro alarm clock is eight minutes away from loudly buzzing Archie awake. Jug quickly turns it off, throws on a sweater that ended up at the end of the bed and makes his way downstairs. To his surprise Mr Andrews is already gone, there is a note stuck on the fridge saying that the snow had melted enough over the weekend and he's gone into work early to get back on schedule. It feels like years ago that he was fighting to keep the Twilight drive-in open, now he's chasing after the dead.

As he makes his coffee and pours a bowl of cereal, he decides he'll use this to his advantage. He needs to get to the southside library and find whatever information he can on Dean Harvey, maybe if he proves to Dean that he can help he'll let him back into the house. The others have been oddly quiet since that night; it's like he has control over them, like he can keep them in just as he keeps Jughead out. Nothing's going to stop him from finding out who Dean is, though.

He makes Archie a coffee, using one of the fancy packet mix’s he bought at the store the other day, and pours him a bowl of cereal before placing everything on a tray and heading back upstairs. Not the most romantic breakfast but Archie is happy and all smiles at the sight of it, like Jughead, cooked him a five-course meal instead of pouring cereal straight from the box. Archie is always grateful for what he's given, which is so typical really.

Jug isn't sophisticated and sexy like Veronica; he isn't preppy and sweet like Betty, he's all rough edges and sharp words, he's a loner and the kid from the wrong side of the tracks, he's everything Archie shouldn't want to be with. Somehow, despite all the differences, they were bound together by something bigger and grander than themselves. Jug always thought Archie would never love him back, that he'd choose the girl, the easy path rather than face the social ridicule of dating a guy in a small town that worshipped football and old fashion values. Archie loved him anyway, loved him through all these years, through all the fights and drama and madness.

“What?” Archie asked around a mouthful of captain crunch.

"Nothing" Jughead shakes his head, clearing the cotton candy cobwebs from his mind. "Just, last night was nice. I'm sorry I wasn't ready to go further, but it was thoroughly pleasant to get lost in each other for a while."

“It’s okay, Jug” Archie reached out, taking his hand. “Last night was perfect.” He leant forward, capturing Jug’s lips in a sugary kiss. “I know you’re not ready to have sex just yet, and I completely understand. I will never push you or make you do anything you’re not ready for, okay? I’ll wait for you to be ready.”

He nodded, biting his lip to hold back the tears, he wished more than anything that they could spend all day in bed, sharing lazy kisses and relearning the sensation of each other’s skin, but they couldn't, they had work to do. Jug kisses him once more because he can, because they are alive and in love, he opens his mouth and says, "So, ah how do you feel about skipping school? Thought we could hit up the library and solve this mystery?" 

Archie's smile fades, expression hardening into determination, the sweetness of the morning is lost, the darkness settles heavy on their shoulders. There is no more time for tender kisses and idle talk; they must go, the clock is winding down, counting the seconds to the end, to their swansong.


	9. I Pray the Lord my Soul to Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! May this one be full of adventures, wonderful stories, love, friendship, good health and joy!  
> Also a little warning for gore ahead!  
> Epilogue coming tomorrow :)

The feelings always come without warning, there is an invisible tug on his sleeve, a humming in his veins that seems to say  _this way_  and he is pulled off course. Sent down a dirt road, through the woods, across a bridge, to someplace where terrible and twisted things happened. He and Archie are stepping off the bus when it happens, the pull and hum lure him away from his intended destination. Archie follows without question, and he chases the ghost of Jason Blossom past Fox Forest Park, down Lubberts Lane and to a ramshackle cabin nestled in the woods by the frozen shores of Crystal Lake.

Jason stands on the porch, sightless eyes full of sadness and regret. Jughead climbs the front steps, they creak and bend beneath his feet; the cabin shows sign of inhabitants, but no one is taking time to treat the rot on the porch ceiling or clean the grime from the windows. It's the kind of place someone doesn't stay long or perhaps they don't care enough to stop the cabin from decaying and succumbing once more to the nature. The door is unlocked, he follows Jason inside, through the small living quarters and to a door leading to the basement.

He hesitates, hand hovering inches from the handle, he knows the memories he’s about to walk in to will be unpleasant. He feels Archie’s hand on his shoulder, igniting courage and reminding him that he is safe. Taking a deep breath, he opens the door, stepping back in time. It’s hot, the heat prickles at his skin, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt, dripping from a lock of hair into his eye. Jughead opens his eyes and finds himself bound to a chair, hands that are not his struggling at the binds in desperation. He has slipped into Jason’s skin, is reliving his death like it was his own.

Jason,  _they_  struggle for what feels like hours, by the time their captor appears their lips are chapped and mouth bone dry, desperate for a drink. Fear beats like fire in their veins, a Serpent, who goes by the name Mustang, steps into view. Jason knows this is it; he is going to die. He shouldn't have messed with the Serpents, shouldn't have made deals with the devils. Mustang, who Jughead has seen at the Whyte Wyrm and the Twilight Drive-in raises his arm, the barrel of a gun is the last thing Jason sees.

Jughead falls through time, landing on the concrete floor that was once soaked in Jason’s blood. He chokes on the memory, on the horror and fear that is strangling his lungs, he can’t stop shaking, can’t breathe,  _can’t breathe._  ‘Jug, hey, Juggie, I’m here’ pierces through the fog, the raging panic. Air refills his gasoline lungs, he grips tight to the hand on his shoulder, vision clearing to reveal Archie’s face, eyes burning bright with fear and worry.

"I'm okay" he reassures, still trying to calm his pounding heart. "Oh God, Arch I saw who killed Jason." He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the memory. "It was Mustang, one of the Serpents" one of the Serpents who used to loiter at the Drive-in, who made Jughead feel uncomfortable every time his gaze swept over him, like he was something sweet to be devoured. He'd always sensed there was something malevolent lingering in Mustang's deep brown eyes, even his dad seemed to pick up on the energy he put off. He never allowed him near Jughead, would always angle his body so it obscured Jughead from Mustang's unsettling gaze.

"We need to talk to my dad" he gets to his feet, swaying as a rush of dizziness overcomes him. He grips tight to Archie, the room tilts and twirls around him, bleeding into a shapeless mess, but one thing stays. There is nothing special about the old cornflower blue wardrobe, the paint has chipped away with time, and one of the handles is missing, still, he is pulled towards it. Inside there are winter coats that smell like mothballs and smoke, boots caked in mud and an old motorcycle helmet with the two-headed Serpent logo stuck to it. Something is hiding in the sea of black, tucked away at the back is a sliver of blue and gold that he knows so well.

Jason's varsity jacket is tucked away just out of sight, behind the thick winter coats and under a pair of biker boots. It's in perfect condition, the scent of his cologne still lingers on the collar. This is their proof, the loaded gun pointing at Mustang. He's done it, he has solved Jason Blossom's murder, but there are still loose ends, things that don't add up. There are too many questions to ponder while standing in the house of horrors, he tucks the jacket out of sight and grabs Archie's hand.

“We can’t just leave it there, Jug” Archie protests as they mount the stairs, “We have to take it to Sheriff Keller.”

"No, we need to call it in and have Keller find it" he whips around to face Archie. "If we take it to Keller he won't believe us; he won't believe me. He'll think we had it all this time and we just happened to find it here. No" he pulls Archie up the steps, back into the small living quarters. "We make an anonymous phone call later; Keller and his team will find it."

“What if they don’t?”

"I left it sticking out enough, so even the most brainless detective will spot it" he is dragging Archie down the front steps now, leading them with a quickened pace back towards town.

“Where are we going now?”

“To talk to my dad, he knows Mustang well enough to tell me what he is capable of.”

“Jug stop” Archie pulls him to a standstill, breathing heavy, eyes burning with concern, with questions. “You think Mustang is The Collector?”

"I don't know" he shrugged, trying to contain the storm brewing beneath his skin. "It doesn't make sense; The Collector has this elegance about him, this drive to create something beautiful in the most grotesque way possible. Mustang is a Serpent who drinks beer and rides a rusty old Harley Davison. He doesn't exactly fit, I know, but I saw him kill Jason, I lived it, and I want some damn answers, Archie."

“I know, Juggie, I know” he moves closer, Jug gravitates towards him, letting the racing thoughts expel in a rush of air. “I want answers to. We’ll talk to your dad first than we’ll call the sheriff, but you need to slow down.”

“I can’t Archie” he steps back, feeling the panic burst to life again, the need to run, to chase rushing through his veins. “We’re so close, I can feel it.”

“Okay” Archie takes Jug’s hand, a comforting, supportive anchor tethering him to the world,  _to him_. “Let’s go speak with your dad. Will he be home?”

"If not, he'll be at the Wyrm, it's on the way, c'mon." He starts walking again, holding firm to Archie's hand, scared that if he lets go, he might disappear, might fall through the ground and wake up in the house with all the other lost boys. He is so scared; fear is a living beast beating inside his chest, anxiety is gasoline filling his lungs, his gut, cold and hot and pulsating. Its residual fear from Jason, it's fear from the lost boys, they have returned, shaken to the core by the discovery of the man who killed them.

If he killed them.

Jughead is afraid he is wrong, and he is worried he is right. There are holes in this twisted revelation, things hiding in the shadows that need to be brought into the light for there to be sense and reason given to this mess. He can't picture Mustang being the one who tortured him, who whispered to him in the dark, curved angel wings into his flesh, called him pretty names that sounded wrong and sticky coming from his mouth. It doesn't seem right; he is a loud, foul mothed biker who hits on women and is aggressive, abrasive, everything The Collector is not. _He_ is a man, a _monster_ that enjoys the fine arts, who sees himself as someone better than the boys he takes, and yet he worships them, finds their sins and flaws delectable. He is an artist, a man with flair and grace; he was not born and raised anywhere near the likes of the south siders.

But he does need a way to drug his victims and where else to go but the south side? The drug found in Jughead’s system was Rohypnol, who better to buy such a vile thing than from then an equally despicable man. He quickens his pace; Mustang knows who The Collector is, he can lead them straight to him. Justice is close; it's at  _their_ fingertips. He knows Mustang will never talk to him and he isn't sure he is brave enough to face him, doesn't want to put Archie in any danger either. But his dad is fearless; Mustang would answer his every question, Jug just hopes his dad will believe him.

*******

FP's not at the Whyte Wyrm or the trailer when they arrive. Jughead fears he's been taken, which is ridiculous, no one would be brave enough to mess with his dad. He uses the spare key hidden under the pot plant, which used to have basil growing in it, but his mum left it behind, and it was never given the care it needed to survive, to get inside. Inside isn't much warmer, but it's better than standing around in the bitter cold, and the flimsy walls shield them from the wind. Archie makes them hot cocoa, finding everything in the tiny kitchen with ease, as Jug paces around the lounge area, waiting with his heart in his chest for his dad to pick up the damn phone.

He eventually does, and though his hello is warm and pleasant, it does little to ease Jug's anxiety. It's what's to come that is making him grip the phone a little too firm, so it doesn't slip from his trembling fingers. His dad isn't going to believe him, not without evidence and even with Archie's voice of reason to support his claim FP will still be hesitant to accept the truth. Not that Jug blames him, he is about to confess to seeing ghosts, to hearing voices in his head, whispering to him the deepest secret Riverdale has ever kept.

His dad could have him committed, hell he could call Fred, and he and Archie would both receive a one-way ticket to a psychologist, but he has to try. Mustang knows who The Collector is, he is the only lead they have, and Jughead is too afraid to go after him. He could sneak into his father's bedroom, open the wardrobe and climb up the shelves so he can reach the top and there would be a red tackle box, and inside that would be a handgun. He could take the gun, point it at Mustang's head and demand to know who he sold the drugs too.

He won't though, because though he is being pulled towards his father's bedroom and there is a need, an urge to take the gun, he won't use it to go after Mustang. His father could so easily get the truth from his lips, he'd give him a few too many beers, talk to him and all of Mustang's secrets would come rushing out. FP had a way of pulling secrets from unwilling lips, Jughead had the same ability, but not with someone like Mustang, whose gaze left his skin cold.

He will take the gun from its hiding place and tuck it in his bag with the missing persons posters and notebook that are full of meaningless words, questions and sketches. He takes it because there is a twist in his gut and a sensation under his skin screaming at him be prepared, danger lurks ahead. He tucks it into his messenger bag along with spare bullets, under the missing person's posters, news clippings and notebook.

He walks back into the kitchen and Archie hands him a mug of hot cocoa and steers him towards the old spring couch with its faded fabric that is stained with memories and a time when the Jones's family was still whole. He places the posters and clipping into a neat pile on the table, notebook sitting next to his untouched drink, the gun sits heavy in the bottom of his bag, a time bomb ticking, a heart beating. FP walks in the front door, carrying grocery bags and it's such a mundane thing to see, that after all the madness it seems unnatural. But FP is still human, he is alive and has to go shopping for bread and milk and frozen dinners for one.

There doesn't seem to be much normal left these days, the town has succumbed to darkness; it's secrets rising to the surface, ready to flood the streets. He is about to shatter his father's reality, he'll do whatever he can to skirt around the truth, but he knows his dad, he'll want to know everything. The truth is dangerous, is going to be hard to swallow but it's the only way, he wants this to end, to have his life back. So, he'll risk his father’s wrath; he'll risk his freedom, he'll risk it all to save the lost boys and escape from this never-ending nightmare.

“What’s so urgent boys,” FP asked, sitting across from them “that you skipped school.”

He doesn't know where to start. How does he explain that ever since he was tortured, he's been seeing the dead, chasing after them in desperation, seeking a killer that has been hiding in plain sight for years? How does he open his mouth and tell him that one of the Serpents killed Jason Blossom, that he relived it, felt the fear and panic as Jason begged for his life? There is no correct way; he just has to open his mouth and speak.

"I know who killed Jason" he keeps his voice steady, eyes never leaving his father’s.

“Excuse me?” FP exclaims, confusion, shock and disbelief flickering in his eyes

"I know who killed Jason" Jughead repeated, words loaded, heavy on his tongue, "It was Mustang, and he knows who hurt me." FP is momentarily frozen, Jughead can see the wheels and gears whirling in his mind, so he continues, he needs to clarify things. "We've been looking into leads for weeks. Today we followed one to a cabin near Crystal lake, and we found Jason's varsity jacket in the basement." 

“Why the hell are you two looking into Jason Blossom’s death?” anger shimmers in his eyes, knuckles turning white as he balls them into fists. “And how did you know it was Mustang? You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, Jug! This is beyond you, both of you and it stops now, are we clear?”

He knows he should say yes sir, should hang his head in shame and leave with his tail between his legs but there are so many lives hanging in the balance. He has no option but, to tell the truth, all of it. “Dad, I need to you to listen to me, okay. I know Mustang killed Jason because… because Jason showed me. I’ve been seeing him… and others for weeks.”

“What are you trying to tell me Jughead?” he hates the fear in his father’s eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way it seeps into the air and wraps around his throat like a noose waiting to be pulled.

“I can see spirits. I’ve seen Jason and” the words are heavy on his tongue, sharp climbing up his throat “I’ve seen others, boys just like me, who were  _hurt_  just like me.”

"Jug, I'm sorry, but I don't believe you" FP looks at him like he is a broken, a thing that needs to be sent away to be fixed.

"Mr Jones, I know this sounds crazy, but it's true" Archie speaks up, trying to get FP to at least consider the possibility. "Jug isn't lying or suffering from post-traumatic stress; he has seen others and Jason. He has been ever since he came home from the hospital. Please, you have to believe us."

"Archie, please don't encourage this" he snaps. "I think it's time you come home Jughead" Jughead shrinks under his father's gaze; this is going to derail very quickly if he doesn't offer any tangible evidence. "You need help” he lowers his voice, words gentle and cautious like he is talking to a frightened child. “I'm sorry I let it get this bad, but I'm going to take care of you, okay? Please, bub, come here."

"I need you to believe me," he says, voice wavering, trembling hands spreading out the posters and clippings on the table before them. "I have proof! I know it sounds crazy, trust me I thought I was losing my mind at first too, but I wasn't! What I was seeing was real, and it's all here" he points to the poster of Wren. "Wren Price went missing in 2010" he taps at the missing person poster that after sleuthing online he eventually found, "Alex Landen was taken from Rosewood in 2003" Alex's poster by some miracle was floating around online as well, it took some digging to find. "Caleb Harrington 1996, taken from a bus stop in Maple Falls" he recites the others boy's names, years and locations, his father watches in silence, expression unreadable.

"And you think these are all connected to you?" his tone is steady but Jughead can see the panic brewing below the surface, at any moment FP will drag him kicking and screaming to the hospital for a psych evaluation.

"And somehow Jason" Archie adds, and Jughead thinks he believes that FP is buying the insanity they are feeding him, but Archie knows better. "I know you don't believe us and I would have questioned Jug's mental state too if it weren't for the fact that I keep finding him when he is in danger." Archie takes his hand, lacing warm, calloused fingers through his trembling ones. "Mr Jones something bigger than us is happening here."

Jughead feels his nerves fraying, the panic clawing at his throat, any moment now everything could fall apart, and he won't get another chance to convince his dad that this is the truth. He picks up his notebook, flips to the page where he sketched an image of Dean Harvey, it's a long shot, but there is a feeling in his gut telling him to take it. He turns the book towards his dad; it catches his attention, eyes swimming with recognition, with memories as he studies the page.

“Do you know Dean Harvey? He would have gone to school with you, right?” Jughead asks, letting FP snatch the book from his fingers. “He was the first.”

"The first what?" FP looks up; a dozen emotions Jug can’t possible catalogue right now dancing in his eyes.

"The first one killed" he replied solemnly. "Dad, I need you to listen, to  _believe_  when I tell you that the man who hurt me, killed these boys, and I am connected to them, to Jason. For the past few weeks, I have been trying to figure out who he is. I am so close; we are so close" he offers Archie a fleeting glance. "And if you don't believe us about Mustang, then  _he_  is going to keep killing boys. I am the only one able to stop this, but I need your help, please? I am begging you, please just…"

"-I don't know how to believe this Jug" he interjects, voice grave "but I know who this is" he rises to his feet, vanishing into the bedroom for a few moments before returning with a photo album that had seen better days. He flips through the pages, stopping towards the back of the book, flipping it around to reveal a grainy black and white image of him at sixteen with Dean Harvey at his side, the neon lights of Pop's visible in the background. "Dean was my friend, he joined the Serpents around the same time I did, and when he went missing, we looked everywhere for him."

“But you never found him” Jughead concluded. “I’m sorry dad.”

“Did you have any leads?” Archie asked, squeezing Jug’s hand. “or suspects?”

"Always thought it was his father. He was a cruel bastard, controlling too," he revealed "liked to go by the book, if you know what I mean, and Dean… well Dean was like you two, and It was the eighties, it wasn't okay back then” he sits down, shoulders sagging under the weight of memories. “When Dean ran away from home, he found himself with the Serpents, six months later he vanished. The sheriff never bothered looking for him; his father made sure of that." FP shakes his head; this is the story Jug saw reflected in his eyes the other morning at the hospital. FP had lost a friend, he’d been snatched by wicked hands, and his dad had been carrying this story around for all these years.

“Did he have a boyfriend?” Archie enquired “maybe in secret?”

“I don’t know” he shrugged “he could have, he was very good at keeping secrets” FP looked up, meeting his eyes, Jug felt a cold shiver race up his spine at the haunted look reflected in them. “He had angel wings tattooed on his back, he never told me why, but I got the sense he was ashamed of them.”

"Angel wings" Jughead whispered, body trembling, mind whirling. The Collector started with Dean; he was the true angel, the others were weak attempts to capture the beauty of the original, they were playthings to fill the void. He did worship them in his own twisted way, he did find beauty in their differences, in their quirks, he liked to make them all the same, starting with the wings and adding the various scars to each boy that came after. They were substitutes for Dean, every seven years when he grew lonely, needed to hurt and violate and be reminded of his perfect angel he'd go hunting. He wouldn't stop, he'd never be able to satisfy his wicked heart.

“He collects us” Jughead speaks, tears prickling at his eyes and voice tightening in his throat. “He can’t have Dean back, so he finds someone to take his place. He hurts us,  _he breaks us_ , and when he grows bored, he kills us." A tear trickles free; he fights back the sob, the scream building in his chest. "He's never going to stop, dad."

FP sets the book aside, rises and walks around the table, kneeling before Jug and taking his free hand “Tell me what you need from me, son and I will do whatever I can to help” he kisses Jug’s knuckles, reaches up with the other hand and brushes away a stray tear. “I don’t understand what is happening to you, but I believe you.”

"Thank you" he pulls his dad in for a hug, burying his face in his shoulder the way he used to when he was six and needed comforting after waking up from a bad dream. “I need you to talk with Mustang, you're the only one he'll tell anything to. Ask him if he’s sold anyone Rohypnol lately, and once you get a name, we'll make a call to the sheriff to tell him that Jason’s jacket is in a blue wardrobe in the basement.”

“And what about the bastard who hurt you?” FP leant back, keeping his hands planted firmly on Jug’s narrow shoulder’s.

Jughead lets a shuddering sigh, knowing his father won’t like what he has to say, “I’ll find him.”

“I can’t let you go after some psycho on your own, Jug. You promise me” he pins Archie with a fierce gaze, “that you will come to me with what you have found.” Archie nods, a silent promise and FP returns his attention to Jug, hands squeezing his shoulders a little too harshly. “I won’t let him hurt you again, bub, but I can’t protect you if you go after him.”

“I’ll keep him safe Mr Jones” Archie vows, “we won’t go after him, I promise.”

“I know you will” he gets to his feet, moving towards the kitchen and Jughead gets the sense it’s time for him and Archie to leave. He gathers up the papers and notebook, stuffing them into his bag and rises, Archie following suit.  “I want you to take the truck and go home,” he orders, handing him the keys. “Don’t go anywhere without each other and take the truck to and from school. No Pop’s or the video store or wherever you two like to go, nowhere but here and Archie’s, got it?”

 “Yes sir” Jughead nods, hating that he is lying right to his father’s face, but this is a promise he can not keep.

“Yes, Mr Jones.”

He steers them towards the door, saying as he goes, "If anyone asks, you haven't seen me today. I'm going to get Mustang to talk, and I will ring you once I have a name then we'll figure out where to go from there, okay,”

“What are you going to do?” Archie asked, pausing in the doorway.

“Nothing illegal” he slaps on a grin, Jughead can see right through it.

He is shaken, old memories of a lost friend are racing through his mind, his reality is forever changed, he is going to need time to process. Jughead still hasn't had the chance to come to terms with everything that was done to him; he's almost afraid for this to end because then there will be no distractions, no more lost boys to chase, it will just be him and his demons coming out to play. The end might be in sight, but it's not the last chapter, there is a whole other story waiting to unfold when this one is through.

**~X~X~X~**

Jughead doesn't drive them home as FP told him too. Instead, they head out of town, turn down a dirt road and stop in a clearing that is used in summer for parties and bonfires. The snow glistens with broken bottles; there are glowing embers in the firepit, someone must have only been here a few hours ago. Archie doesn't question Jug when he slips out into the cold, picking through the grey slush for unbroken bottles then setting them in a line on a wooden fence. This makes him step out into cold, curious and concerned, is this something they are making him do? Is there a secret hidden in the parade of colourful bottles that sparkle in the sun?

“Juggie, what are you doing?” he asks, moving towards him, being careful of where he stepped.

"I'm going to teach you how to aim" Jughead turns around just his hand disappears into his beat-up messenger bag. Archie thinks he'll get him a new one for Christmas, but then there is a gun emerging from it and all thoughts of Christmas vanish.

“Jughead where the hell did you get that?” he steps back, he isn’t afraid Jug will shoot him, but he doesn’t feel comfortable standing this close to a weapon.

“From dads” he replied, loading a few bullets into the barrel.

“And why do we need a gun?”

“Protection, Archie” Jughead looks up from his task, eyes full of desperation and fear that he tries to hide with a casual tone “and relax, dad taught me to use it when I was fourteen.”

“Jug I don’t know if this is a good idea.” He’s never handled a weapon in his life, his dad doesn’t even trust him with knives, he’s cut himself so many times he’s lost count. The last thing he needs to do is shoot himself in the foot or worse, Jug.

“Arch, it’s okay, look” he turns towards the fence, gun pointed at the bottles and pulls the trigger, coloured glass shattering into tiny glistening shards. “See, easy” he clicks on the safety before holding it out for him to take.

He hesitates, he knows Jughead has taken the gun out of fear, he isn't a violent person and the gun looks strange and wrong in his hands, and yet he has this sense, this voice whispering that he needs to learn, that his life might depend on it. So, he takes the loaded weapon from Jug, lets him position his body in the right angle, follows his every instruction and when his hand is steady and his heartbeat calm, he pulls the trigger. He misses the first three times, feels stupid and frustrated, and his fingers are numb from the cold. The burning sensation under his skin starts without warning, his vision tunnels and the bottle he is aiming at becomes a porcelain white face.

He’s never seen The Collector, only heard Jug describe him, but he knows with certainty that the man standing before them is the monster they are seeking. He pulls the trigger, hears the loud bang and watches the bullet soar through the air like time is moving in slow motion, it embeds right between his eyes, his face explodes in a shower of sapphire glass. There is just the fence once again, glistening glass on the snow-covered ground and Archie lowers the gun, feeling no twist in his gut, no guilt or conflict over what he just did.

If Archie gets the chance, if the gun is in his hands and fate puts The Collector right before him, for real, then he will pull the trigger, he will slay the monster. He will do anything to free Jug from the darkness he been plunged into.

**~X~X~X~**

Sleep eluded him; harrowing nightmares plagued his subconscious every time he drifted off.  He has terrifying dreams of being taken from Archie, he tries desperately to outrun the faceless men, but they move too fast, are too strong, and he is dragged kicking and screaming to a place of isolation. He is locked in the grey, blood-stained basement that the lost boys spent their final days in, he begs to be freed, and for weeks no one comes. Then one day his dad appears, says awful things to him and leaves Jug weeping in the dark. He startles awake, choking on a sob, cheeks damp with tears, alone and shaken.

He cradles Luna in his arms and tiptoes to Archie's room, slipping under the covers with him. It doesn't save him from nightmares, they follow him, force him to see a distorted, terrifying reality where he is sent to jail for Jason Blossom's murder, where he is hunted through the woods by an angry mob and strung up like a witch. He dreams of everyone he loves abandoning him, of locking him up in a padded cell and one day The Collector appears disguised as a doctor, and his father allows him to give him shock therapy.

That's when Caleb's memory returns, violent and painful. Jug's body spasms just as Caleb's did, the pain feels like it will never end, it could have lasted days or centuries but eventually the memory fades, and he is released from its grip. Archie is pinning him to the bed, eyes sparkling with tears and fear, every inch of Jug aches, he can smell charred flesh and taste copper on his tongue. Caleb Harrington died by electrocution. It's no wonder he wanted to forget. He can't sleep after that, he feels ill, feels frayed, nerves raw and exposed to the chilling night air.

Archie holds him; they lay in silence until the sun rises and chases away the dark and the horrors of the night. The morning is sombre even with the sun beaming bright and golden in the sky. He goes through the motions: showers, eats what little he can, drinks a large mug of coffee and drives them to school. It's not until Archie takes his hand that he feels himself connecting with his body, with the world, he holds on tight, letting Archie guide them to where they need to go.

They head towards the Blue and Gold to meet Betty, there is a thousand things he needs to tell her, but he can’t seem to make words form on his tongue, so he just listens. She reveals what information she has unearthed on Jason Blossom’s death, which now doesn’t matter since they know who killed him. Jughead isn’t about to tell Betty he can communicate with the dead, he studies her list of suspects as she explains her theories. She believes that Veronica’s dad, Hiram Lodge, could have hired someone to kill Jason as a complicated form of revenge and Polly thinks his parents are the ones responsible.

They are good theories, and there might still be some truth to them, Mustang could easily be the middleman, and they won't know until the Sheriff brings him in for questioning. He should tell Betty that they know who killed Jason, end her desperation, but he and Archie agreed that finding The Collector came first and telling Betty wasn't an option. If she went after Mustang or went to Sheriff Keller, then their only chance would be gone. He knows if they asked her to keep it a secret then she would, she would trust them enough not to tell a soul, but he wasn't going to put her in that position.

Everything would come out soon; Betty could tear down her board and return to her life, they all could. Archie tells her to be careful, he even steers her in the wrong direction, and Jughead keeps looking at the board, following the red string from image to image, eyes landing on a photo of Clifford Blossom. There is this feeling, like when you try to remember something forgotten and instead all there is a blank space where a memory should be, in the back of his mind.

It starts at his fingertips, a rushing sensation racing through his veins, ready to release a memory or pluck him from where he stands and send him to the in-between or back through time. The world ripples around him, Betty and Archie fading away as the room shifts and he is moved through space and time. Only he never reaches his destination, the shrill bell shatters the spell, and he slams back into his body, stumbling with the force of it. Archie steadies him on his feet; Betty looks at him with concern, he assures them he is fine, just a dizzy spell from a bad night's sleep. Betty lets it go, though she looks like she is going to press the matter, Archie takes his hand, and together they head to class.

Jughead continues going through the motions, struggles to stay awake, to pay attention with a dull headache beating behind his eyes and a memory lingering in the dark, waiting for its chance to come out. The day goes by in a blur of faces and colour; it feels like he is stuck in the in-between, looking through a thick glass wall at the life he left behind. If he's not careful, if he takes a wrong turn or doesn't heed a warning he will end up like the lost boys, forever trapped in the darkness, bound to the house of pretty, broken things for all eternity. He doesn't want to listen, to acknowledge the ticking clock that echoes in his mind, growing louder and louder as the day creeps by.

He's sitting next to Veronica in science, a frog lying dead on the table before them, the clock ticking oh so loudly in his head. Veronica hands him the scalpel; she is terrified of frogs and squeamish at the sight of blood, so he takes the blade even though he can barely breathe. His hands tremble violently, sweat beads on his forehead and the tick-tock-tick-tock matches the beat of his pounding heart. The pain comes without warning, sharp and deep like someone has plucked the blade from his hand and began to reopen the wounds on his back. The clock is thunderous in his head, there is the stomach-turning sound of a blade slicing through flesh, and a scream builds in his chest like a bomb ready to explode.

The scalpel falls to the floor with a clang, the ticking in his head crescendos, a cyclonic storm gathers in his chest, rising higher to escape his mouth just as the pendulum swings. He screams. It shreds his throat, rips from deep within in his lungs and detonates into the air in pulsating waves. The scream dies on his tongue, he hunches forward, gasping in deep breaths, shaking from the cold that settles in his bones, nestles in his lungs. Everyone is looking at him; he can feel their judging eyes, feel the shift of energy in the room to something akin to pure terror. It's nothing compared to the sensation rushing through his bloodstream, the fear that sits alive and electric under his skin.

Someone is going to die. He doesn't know who or when, but he knows death is closing in, can hear the church bells ringing and see the candles burn in mourning. Death is coming; it's breathing down his neck, a warning, a promise of the horror that is to come. Someone, no not just someone, someone he loves will die tonight. He can feel their blood on his hands, hear their dying breath in his mind. He needs to know who, he needs to know how. He can't lose anyone, especially not Archie, who is his world, his light, his  _soulmate._

Rising in a hurry, before anyone can utter a word or move in his direction he runs from the room, crashing into the hallway and letting the ethereal force lead him to where he needs to be. He pays no mind to his surroundings; it's only when he's standing in front of Betty's board, panting, shaking, does he realise where he is. Jughead looks at an array of images, clippings and notes, eyes travelling along the red strings to the centre of the web, where a picture of Jason Blossom sits. Reality shifts, the world rushing away, plunging him into the hollowed-out place that is the in-between.

Jughead shivers, eyes studying the photo of Jason only to discover it isn't Jason, not anymore. It's Clifford Blossom at sixteen, his dark, emotionless eyes staring back. Eyes Jug has seen reflected with flashing red, with a glint of malicious intent and sick joy shimmering in them. The images swirl away in a tangle of black smoke, everything goes dark for a few terrifying moments then it clears, and Mustang's basement comes into focus. He is once more Jason, struggling in vain to escape the tight binds as a figure stalks down the staircase, something silver and deadly in their hands.

This time it is not Mustang holding the gun, it’s Clifford Blossom, spewing abuse and telling Jason he should have been a good boy, shouldn’t have tried to run away. Jason pleads and begs and cries but his father does not care, there is madness in his eyes and not a flicker of remorse as he lifts the gun. The last thing Jason,  _they_  see is the barrel of a gun. The force sends Jughead back to the Blue and Gold, he crashes to the floor, writhing in agony as pain sears through his head.

“Do you get it now?” a disembodied voice demands “or do you want to see some more?”

Jughead doesn't have time to respond, the ground falls from underneath him, plummeting him through time and space, he lands in a heap of what should be broken bones on a familiar checkered floor. It hurts to move, to lift himself from the dust-covered tiles and turn towards the front door that is opening to let a red-haired teenage boy and Dean Harvey through. The redhaired boy is wearing a blue and gold varsity jacket, a lazy, self-assured smirk on his face as he leads Dean, who is sporting a southside Serpent jacket, up the winding staircase.

He chases after them, finding it disconcerting how much it’s like watching him and Archie, only there is something different in the way the move, in the way they look at each other. There is something violent in the way the red-haired boy kisses Dean, pinning his arms above his head like he is prey and he the wolf. He is fierce and possessive in the way he leaves marks on Dean’s neck, biting and drawing blood like he is claiming ownership rather than the way Archie leaves tender marks of worship behind on Jughead’s skin.

Jughead stands to the side, watching, studying the display with unease. Dean opens his eyes, turning towards him like he is about to speak but this is just a memory, and he is shoving the boy away, saying stop, but he keeps coming. It goes on for some time, Dean pushes, and the boy moves back in. No is not something he wants to hear; it's not something he has ever heard. Dean punches him, knocking him back a few steps and the anger on the boy's face is frightful. He hits Dean, he hits back, then they are kissing again, and on it goes, a deadly game of violent delights.

Jughead gets the sense he isn’t watching just one moments events, this is weeks, months of events rolled into one, replaying over and over, a never-ending cycle of abuse. But it does end, they have vanished from the wall; now they stand by the railing, shouting, fists flying and anger rising, consuming. Jughead watches in silence, horrified at the display of abuse that is dressed up as love, as affection. He watches and the pieces slot together, sickening and horrifying as the sound of bones breaking.

The red-haired boy is Clifford Blossom, and that should have been obvious, but he is dizzy, head spinning madly from the world shifting and changing so rapidly around him. Dean is leaving, this game of insanity is over, but Clifford won't let him go. He holds tight, he shoves, he rages, the chaos unfolds, and there is nothing Jug can do to save Dean as a brutal shove sends him toppling over the railing. The impact makes a mighty sound, Clifford's scream of panic is animalistic, he bolts down the stairs, but it's too late.

Jughead stumbles backwards, collapsing into a chair, the Blue and Gold reappearing around him. It all began that day, when Clifford killed Dean in a fit of rage. The monster existed long before Jug was even born, he was alive and thriving long before the first lost boy was taken. Clifford Blossom killed Dean Harvey, the lost boys and his own son, he truly was a monster, and he would have killed him too. After months of torture and rape, Jug would have been another lost soul trapped for all eternity inside the house of horrors.

“I didn’t die in the fall” Dean is sitting atop the desk, legs dangling over the edge, arms crossed firmly over his narrow chest. “I lived for three days until my injuries finally killed me.”

“He left you to die?” Jughead feels sick, shivering at the thought of dying alone, in agony on the dust covered floor.

"I wish" he laughed bitterly. "He carried me upstairs to one of the bedrooms and in his own fucked up way tried to save my life. I spent three days in agony; I greeted death like an old friend."

He can hear the lie in Dean’s voice, see past the walls and find a glimpse of him desperately holding onto life, begging for Clifford to get help. He died in the night, the following day Clifford stripped him of all his belongings and buried him in the backyard, where previous Blossom family members had already been laid to rest.

"I'm so sorry for what happened to you" he is, it's a cruel fate, and Jughead can't fathom having someone who is supposed to love you hurt you,  _kill you_. "But I need to know where the house is, please? I can set you free; I can set all of you free."

Dean looks at him, eyes swimming with a lifetime of painful and haunting memories. “No one can save us.”

"I can" he shouted, determination searing through his veins "Caleb, Wren, Alex, Adrian and Sam know I can! You are the only person who is standing in my way. Show me where the house is, let me go there, and I will end this. I promise you I will end this."

Dean crooks his head to the side, pursing his lips in thought, he seems so young, he seems so much like him. "No. This is our hell; you are the boy who lived" he spat these words, venom coating his tone. "So, wake up and return to the boyfriend who loves you, who'd never hurt you," He jumps off the desk, moving in, getting close enough Jughead would be able to feel his breath if he were alive, "who is everything I never had the chance to have. Wake up and forget about us, forget what you are and what you've seen; you can't save us. Wake up!"

With these final words he shoves Jughead backwards, he falls down, down, down, landing on a soft bed. Eyes snap open, finding blinding bright lights, pain bursts behind his eyes, he groans in agony, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. He curls in on himself, sobbing pitifully as the pain radiates through him, every inch of his body feels bruised and beaten. It takes great strength to lift his head; the lights are blinding, head spinning, making the room wilt and tilt. He can't hold back the bile, he heaves violently over the edge, gagging as his stomach empties and spasms.

He feels like death; he imagines this must be how Dean felt in his final hours, scared, wanting to live but also desperate for it to be over. Is Dean forcing his pain onto him, shackling him in place so he can't go looking, can't continue chasing the lost boys? It's immense; he can't see through the swirling mess of colours and lights, he is choking on fear and memories, trying to form words, to call for help. He doesn't know where he is, where is Archie? Why isn't he here?

There is a firm hand on his shoulder, a dark figure looms over him, brushing back sweat soaked locks and pressing a glass of chilled water to his chapped lips. He drinks slowly, feeling his stomach churn at the touch of coolness. The bed dips as the figure sits next to him, Jug's vision begins to clear, the room turning right side up. The cream coloured walls come into focus first then the sunshine yellow curtains settle over the window, sounds and smells slowly trickle in to create a clear picture of his surroundings. He is in the hospital, he doesn't remember how he came to be here, that doesn't matter, all that matters is he must go, he is so close and time is running out.

“Easy kiddo” FP gently holds him down as he struggles to rise. “You need to rest; do you remember what happened?”

“I remember being at school” he doesn’t have time for this, the lost boys are filling up the empty spaces in the room, their lips straining at the threads, desperate to give warning.

"You had a seizure" FP explained calmly. "The doctors aren't sure what caused it, but they're going to run some tests in the morning."

He doesn't understand what his father is saying, he was fine, he  _is_  fine, and there is no time for tests when there is nothing medically wrong with him. He has to explain; his dad doesn't understand that this is just part of the visions, part of what he has become. "Dad, whatever happened wasn't a seizure" he reassured. "Dean shared some memories with me, and I've never felt anything that powerful before, my body must have reacted badly to it, but I am fine."

"Jughead stop" his father ordered, tone harsh like a slap, then softening, words spoken with care. "I shouldn't have entertained this yesterday; there is something wrong, Jug. You need help."

Jughead recoils from his father, he believed him yesterday, he saw the sketch of Dean, listened to Archie and he believed them, why doesn’t he believe now? “Dad, I showed you proof, Archie told you that it’s true, I am not crazy. I not fucking crazy.”

“Archie would do anything for you Jughead” FP snarled “he’s so devoted to you.”

There is something wrong with his father's tone; there is jealousy underlining his words, sticky and venomous and familiar. "You are not my dad" he hissed, shoving him away. "Stop playing games with me! I get it; you’re angry that you've spent the last twenty-something years trapped in that Godforsaken house, but if you would just let me, I could save you." He looks to the others, who's eyes shimmer with hope, with tears of desperation and a profound longing to be set free. "Show me where the house is Dean!"

Dean, in his father's skin, looks tired, the mask slips, and he vanishes in a swirl of black tendrils, reforming as his true self, "You don't get it? Don't you feel it?"

"Yes" he doesn't need to know what Dean is asking, he feels it pulsating under his skin, an itch he cannot scratch, a scream warning of impending death. "He's been watching me” the realisation settles over him, the room decorated with photos flickers in his mind, intimate and cherished moments frozen in time, pinned to decaying walls and admired by Clifford. The monster of his dreams, the man he had been chasing for weeks finally has a name. While Jug was seeking him, Clifford was still watching, taking pleasure as he spiralled, as he fell to wrack and ruin in the wake of the things he did to him. Clifford had been enjoying this game of cat and mouse, Jug can feel it, but this game was about to come to a bloody, violent end.

“Someone’s going to die” he whispered, scared to voice it louder, scared because he knew who it would be, could feel their name clawing up his throat. He doesn’t want to speak it, it tastes like ash in his mouth and makes tears well in his eyes, chest squeeze in panic. “I don’t want him to die” he tries not to break, to fall apart as images dance in his mind, a harrowing scream building in warning. “I can stop it. Tell me where the house is, I am begging you.”

“Tell me who’s going to die” Dean demanded, tone cold and cruel.

It hurts, it’s glass shards in his mouth, but the word won’t budge, won’t escape from where it teeters on the tip of his tongue.

“Say it!”

He won't; he can't tell for certain, there is so much noise in his head, the lost boys are hovering in the shadows, Dean's face is flickering between his own and FP's. Jughead screams. He sees Archie bound to a chair in the basement where all the other boys were kept; he sees Clifford standing behind him, the tip of sharp blade pressed against Archie's throat. The scream dies in his throat, he chokes back bile, blinks back the tears and says, "Archie" anger sears through his bloodstream, he is tired of these games, of Dean holding back the location of the house.

He lurches forward, grabbing Dean by the lapels of his leather jacket, he doesn't fizzle or flicker, he is solid, warm, breathing. Dean is gripping tightly to his wrist, saying ‘calm down, Jug let go. It's okay bub, your safe’. The leather turns to soft worn-out fabric, Dean's face morphs into his father's again, blue eyes burning with fear, with panic. Jughead doesn't know what is real anymore. Is this another trick? Is Dean still messing with him or was he never here in the first place and this whole time he's been speaking to his father who must be so confused and scared for him,  _of him_.

There is no up or down, no way to distinguish between the dead and the living. He is truly losing his mind. But one thing is clear, one thing is tangible, and that is Archie is in danger, and if he does not hurry then he will die, then Clifford Blossom will kill him. He doesn't know when or how Clifford got the chance to take Archie, but he has, he is being held in that Godforsaken basement, and Jughead must find it whatever it takes. First, he needs to get out of here. His father is pinning him to the bed, to the left Jughead can see his clothes folded neatly on the chair, combat boots sitting by the legs, the keys to his dad's motorbike sit on the tray table next to his bag which he hopes still holds the gun.

He is sorry, so very sorry but Archie needs him, the lost boys need him. He reaches for the vase that sits on the nightstand, sunshine yellow just like the curtains and takes hold of it, takes a deep breath and smashes it over his dad's head. He is knocked to the floor, Jughead jumps up, collects his belongs and runs from the room, not looking back to see if anyone gives chase. He is grateful that Riverdale Memorial Hospital is only small, that his dad's motorcycle is parked close to the entrance, the two-headed snake making it easy to spot.

He spares a few precious seconds to shove his clothes in the bag; he senses Archie collected it from his locker, giving it to FP or leaving it in his bedroom for when he woke up. The sky overhead is dark, the air chilling to the bone, it's getting late, how long has Archie been missing? How has no one noticed? He shoves his feet into his boots, grateful that at least he was left with his socks, mounts the bike, revs the engine to life and takes off, sparing no last glance back to see if anyone is chasing after him.

He doesn't know where he is meant to go; there is just a sense he needs to head towards the motel, to cross the borderline and travel down the dark roads with the towering woods closing in on all sides. He can't stop shaking, can't believe he knocked his dad out, if it was his dad and not Dean playing tricks. He is angry, confused and terrified. He is speeding towards death, though as the wind clears his mind and the coldness settles in his bones things start to become a little less hazy.

Archie’s death is just one possible outcome of the night, it’s not set in stone, not woven in the fabric of the universe, it’s something that can be changed, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t die. Death is riding behind him, following him past the motel with its haunting crimson neon sign, death is coming to claim a life, he just isn’t certain whose.

**~X~X~X~**

Archie wakes with a splitting headache, can feel something trickle down his brow, coating his lashes. He tries to remember, to piece together the fragmented images in his mind. He remembers Jughead, body spasming and contorting on the floor in the Blue and Gold, recalls calling for help, flashing blue and red lights, white doors closing. Then there is waiting, lots of waiting, FP pacing, FP yelling at him, telling him Jughead isn't psychic, he is sick, and his dad is stepping in to diffuse the situation.

There is the truth coming to light; he told his dad everything that had occurred over the last few weeks, the dreams, the visions, the lost boys. Fred had never looked so disappointed in him. He orders him to go wait in the car and he tried to make them believe, shouted that FP had, that he’d even gone looking for Mustang, but now he was closed off, doubting once again, when right now he and Jughead needed him to believe. Archie is sent to wait in the truck, he picks up Jug's messenger bag, which he'd been clinging to like a lifeline, and hands it to FP before leaving. Jug will need that when he wakes, he will need what lies at the bottom though Archie has no clue the gun sits nestled under the papers and books.

After that, things begin to blur, he recalls walking past his dads truck, too frustrated and angry to obey, and the idea of sitting in the silent cabin, alone with his churning thoughts was too much. He kept walking, venturing further than the car park, running on anxiety, body flushed with anger. It felt like he walked for miles, but the hospital was still in eyesight. The last thing he remembers is looking back at the hospital, feeling so far away from the boy he loves. Now he is blinking open heavy lids, bitting back a groan as the dank, dark room settles around him. He struggles against the binds wrapped tightly around his wrists and ankles, heart beating like a war drum when reality settles around him.

Oh, God. He is tied to a chair in a basement that smells like death and rot and looks like someone's personalised torture dungeon. Panic roars through his bloodstream, he struggles desperately against the binds, unaware of the figure walking down the staircase. He doesn't know what to do; he can hardly breathe, the fear is ice coursing through his veins, clouding his mind and obscuring his vision. The roaring of his blood and the pounding of his heart prevented him from noticing the sound of approaching footsteps. He struggles desperately, fighting back tears and the urge to yell for help which sits in the base of his throat, there is no point, no one will hear him.

It's not until the tall, menacing figure is standing before him does he look up, breath catching in his throat at the sight of the bone white mask that has haunted Jughead's dreams. He stars into the dark, cruel eyes of The Collector. There are questions burning under the fear, why has he taken him? He isn't like Jug or the lost boys; he has vibrant red hair and an athletes body, he wears the blue and gold varsity jacket and looks every bit the boy next door even if he despises the term. He isn't what The Collector likes, so why is he here?

“Hello Archie” his voice is muffled by the mask, it only adds to the threatening appearance. “I’ve been watching you for some time, watching you be intimate with what is mine.”

Anger boils in his veins, scattering the fear momentarily “Jughead isn’t yours” he growls, gut twisting at the thought this maniac watching them, studying their every move, “stay the hell away from him.”

"I marked him" he replied, voice cold and sharp like a steel knife "I curved him into a work of art, made him even more beautiful" there is a smirk in his voice, a trace of delight in the wicked things he'd done. Archie shivers, feels his heart threaten to beat right out of his chest, the anger is waning, fear too strong for it to stay ablaze. "I suppose in your eyes what I did to him is ugly, is vile." He leans in close, doll-like mask hovering inches from Archie's face. "Do you flinch whenever you see the marks I left? Do you recoil when your hand grazes over the majestic wings spanning over his back? Are you sickened knowing he is mine and I've just let you use him while I waited for the perfect moment to take back what is mine?"

The urge rises without warning, brought to life by the bristling rage and the sickness pooling in his gut, Archie headbutts the man, it hurts like hell but its satisfying. He stumbles backwards, muttering something he can’t make out through the muffle of the masks. Archie has never hated someone so much, he is disgusted and mortified at his words, shaking with rage and biting back everything he wishes to say. He’d never be repulsed by Jug’s scars, he has and will always love him regardless of the marks this monster left on his skin, but there is no point wasting his breath, this man is a manic and enraging him further will do no good.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, trying to sound firm, to keep the rage alive.

"I was waiting for the right time to retake my angel; watching him fall apart has been so pleasing" he practically purrs, he takes such joy in these violent delights. "But then I noticed he was looking into the others, magically ending up places he shouldn't be, knowing things no one living could possibly know, and you knew these things too.” He reaches into the coat pocket, lazily stalking towards him, brandishing a glistening hunters blade “If I retook my angel you'd never stop trying to find him, and you'd already found him once, I couldn't risk that again.”

"My dad will look for me; Jughead will look for me" he is trying to buy time, to somehow stumble across a miracle and escape from these binds, from this nightmare. "Your wicked little games are over; everyone will know who you are, Jug will make sure of that."

 "I haven't been found yet" he steps around him, blade resting against Archie's throat and with one swift flick of his wrist he could spill his blood all over the floor, where so much had been spilt through the years. "Once I have my angel again I have secured a new place to keep him, though it pains me to leave this all behind, but I won't risk being discovered." The blade bites into Archie's flesh, he can't breathe, feels physically ill "I won't have what is mine being taken from me again." Blood escapes as the knife cuts deeper, there is joy and excitement, as he speaks "Any last words?"

Archie closes his eyes, mouth opening to speak, hoping it will travel from this cold, desolate place to Jug's warmly lit hospital room. Hoping he will hear it and know how sorry he is, know how much he loves him. "I'm so sorry Juggie" he whispers, "I will always love you" the tears finally slip free, he bows his head, accepting his fate.

**~X~X~X~**

The motorcycle skids to a stop on the side of the road, trees tower above, stars wink to life in the darkening sky, they seem to be mocking him, taunting him with a fate he can not see. He must hurry, grit his teeth against the bitter cold and strip off the hospital gown, hastily getting redressed. A fresh flurry of snow descends from the sky, covering the tracks the motorcycle left behind; no one will be able to find him if they went looking, and he could easily get lost, as he didn't leave a trail of breadcrumbs to follow home. Jughead, now clothed, shivers, surveying the surroundings in desperation, needing a clue, a sign, anything to tell him where to go next. The lost boys hide in the trees, their eyes as bright as the stars glistening in the night sky.

“I don’t know where to go” he shouts, voice carrying on the wind “Please, Dean show me where to go!”

The leaves rustle, the lost boys vanish in swirls of inky black tendrils, Dean appears, leaning against the bike, studying Jughead. "You're going to get yourself killed" he declares nonchalantly like he was reporting the weather. "He is going to take you apart in the cruellest ways. He'll carve you up, he'll beat you" he strides towards Jug, he stumbles backwards in the snow, back colliding with a sturdy tree trunk. "He'll starve you, disfigure, defile and rape you, just like he did the others!” he wraps a hand around Jughead's throat, squeezing "is that what you want? Is this the fate you are willingly going to walk towards?"

“I don’t care what happens to me” he manages to get around the pressure on his throat “I am going to save Archie even if it means Clifford has the chance of taking me again. I am not a fucking coward like you.”

"Don't you dare" he shouted, voice echoing, rising up to scatter the birds perched in the treetops. "I am not afraid."

“Yes, you are” Jughead whispered “and so am I. We all are.”

The lost boys appear around them, gathered in a close circle, reaching to pry Dean's strong grip from Jughead's throat. He coughs, gasping for breath as the pressure releases, Dean shrugs the lost boys off, face twisting in anger.

“He’ll hurt you eventually” Dean spits “He’ll isolate you from everyone you care about, he’ll break you down until there is nothing left.”

"Archie is not Clifford," Jughead said, standing taller, shaking off the fear and anger. Dean was hurt by the boy he loved, for months he was abused and used, he was sixteen years old and the one person he should have been able to count on turned into a monster. Clifford killed him long before their final fight; he wore him down until there was nothing left. “I get it, what Clifford did you to was cruel and wrong, but I am not him, Archie isn’t him and he doesn’t deserve to die because you are angry.” Jughead kept his tone steady, the lost boys gathered closer, feeding off his strength, his courage “the others don’t deserve to spend forever trapped because you can’t let go. You are dead Dean, and I am sorry that I can't unravel time and save you, but I can set you free. I can save Archie, so please, please, for the love of God, show me where to go."

Dean's arms drop to his side, he looks down at his scuffed combat boots, shoulders sagging, years of anger, fear and regret dispelling from him in a long sigh. He looks up, eyes bluer than before, face a little less haunted and looks towards a section of trees with low hanging branches and snow cleared away. “I’m sorry. I’ve suffered for so long that I forget what it feels like to be human, to feel anything other than rage and misery. I shouldn’t have messed with you at the hospital, over the years I have become like him… a monster.”

“You’re not a monster Dean” he reassured, hoping that in his next breath Dean would tell him which direction to head in.

“You’ll have to leave the bike here, the path is too uneven to drive it on” he begins to walk towards the branches weighed down with snow, Jug follows. "This will lead you to the gate, the one you drew the other day. Alex didn't see it; you somehow plucked it from one of my memories."

“This leads to the house?”

“Yes, I know the way like I know the back of my hand.”

"Well let's go" Jughead moves toward it, brushing aside the spindly branches and emerging on the other side to find a snow-dusted path reaching into the woods, curving ahead and vanishing from sight. There is no time to waste, he moves quickly, thankful the interlocking branches above have kept most of the snow from covering the ground. It’s dark in the woods, they come alive around them, hungry and howling, shaking and shuddering in the wind, animals scurry through the undergrowth, branches stretch out like hands, seeking lost souls to devour.

It's freezing, his clothes are not thick enough to shield him from the chill but at least he had the foresight to take them otherwise he’d succumb to the cold long before he could reach Archie. The path ahead is illuminated in the glow of his cell phone, he grips tight to the gun in his other hand, ready to slay the beast, to save the boy he loves. Up ahead something rises out of the darkness, he quickens his pace, stopping in front of the towering iron gates. A thick chain is wound through the bars, shiny and new like someone only recently replaced it.

“He was going to bring you here” Dean’s fingers glide through the padlock.

Jughead shivers at the thought, though he can’t help but ask “why did he take me to the motel?”

"Roadworks" Dean moves through the fence appearing on the other side "seems so mundane."

That's all that saved his life. He remembers overhearing about a new road being laid; everyone had been so happy that they didn't have to deal with the potholes and loose gravel when they travelled to Rosewood. Clifford couldn't get to the house, he would have eventually taken him there, but he'd been so eager to claim his next victim and that eagerness had saved Jug's life. He looks down at the dirt road, searching for footprints left in the snow but it's too dark to see anything. Clifford had to have come this way with Archie, had he carried him? Did he have a car stashed in the woods, hidden from view to make the long trek to the house more manageable? None of that mattered, he needed to keep moving, find a way through or around the fence.

"This fence goes for miles," Dean says like he can see Jug’s thoughts just as he can see his “we’ll have to go through.”

Jughead looks at the padlock and the thick chains woven through the bars; there is no way he has the strength to break these, unless… he turns to Dean, he winks. The only way through is through, and he might not have anything physical to break the lock, but that doesn't mean he's not able to destroy it. The scream builds below his ribs, swells in his diaphragm as it rises, rises, rises, exploding into the silent forest with a terrifying sound and deadly force. The lock shatters, the gates swing backwards, bent and twisted out of shape, Jughead stares at his destruction with awe, feeling powerful and unafraid for the first time in weeks.

He crosses the threshold, and the courage dies in his veins, strength turning to ash in his stomach, it feels like stepping into a graveyard, and he is reminded that tonight someone is going to die. He swallows the fear, marches forward, gripping the gun for dear life, if he is to die tonight then he's not going down without a fight.

****

The ancient, decrepit house rises above him, dark clouds gather in the sky, blotting out the moon and the glittering stars, creating a gloomy backdrop to an eerie, desolate place. It feels surreal to see the house in the real world, to see just how big and imposing it is. It stands tall and proud in the centre of a clearing, mountains and low hanging cloud paint an ominous backdrop, overgrown bushes and vines climb up the brick façade, the stone steps are just visible through the spindly branches. Each window on the first floor is boarded up; the front door is locked, knob cold and coated in ice, the house dark and silent inside.

There is no sign of life, just the sound of the wind whistling through the trees and the crunch of snow beneath Jughead's boots. Clifford is inside, he has Archie, and he knows where they must be. He could scream, shatter the front door and all the windows but he doesn't want to alert Clifford to his presence. Dean steers him towards a secret entrance; there is a sturdy tree outside the room where Dean spent his final hours, it's sparse branches sway in the wind, catching on the window, sounding like a beast eager to get in. Jug climbs with practised ease, retracing steps that he feels like he's made a dozen times before, kicks a hole in the window, knowing it won't be heard and slides it up to shimmy through.

There is no time to take in his surroundings, to look at the bed that holds the memories of Dean's last moments. The clock is counting down in the back of his mind, death following in every step, chasing him through the hallways, down the steps and all the way to the basement door. He cocks the gun, takes a deep breath and descends into the darkness, hearing muffled voices float towards him. The first part of looks like every other in America, filled with boxes, Christmas decorations and things that should be thrown out but somehow never make it to the trash.

Ahead is another door, light seeping through the gap. He descends the second flight of stairs, footsteps steady and silent, gun trembling in his hands as he takes in the sight before him. Archie is bound to a chair, Clifford stands behind him, hiding behind his mask, holding a knife to Archie's throat. Jughead reaches the bottom, aiming the gun at Clifford's head, trying to keep his hands from quivering as he catches a trickle of blood trail down Archie's throat.

“Hey” he shouts, making Clifford freeze and both their heads whip towards him. “Get away from him.”

Archie goes to say something, but the tip of the blade is pressed against his lips, silencing him. Clifford moves gracefully, standing at Archie’s side but keeping the blade against lips Jug has kissed a hundred times. "Do you really think you can shoot me before I slit his throat?" there is a challenge in his voice, the knife trailing back down to rest against Archie's throat, a threat, a warning, a promise.

Jug’s hands shake, he wants to believe he could, can see the bullet sailing through the air just as Clifford drags the knife across Archie’s throat. He sees crimson everywhere, gushing, pouring in rivulets from the gaping wound in Archie’s neck, red glistening blood pools from a hole in Clifford Blossom’s forehead, like a messed-up halo. He blinks the vision away, heart hammering in his chest, mind searching frantically for another way. He only sees death, can only see one way to save Archie’s life, even if that means giving up his own.

"I'll stay" the words struggle up his throat, feel like ice on his tongue and shock Archie, who shouts no but he keeps talking "if… if you let Archie go, I'll stay."

“Prove it” the knife moves an inch from Archie’s windpipe, “unload the gun and kick it over here.”

He does as he is told, avoiding Archie’s gaze, hating the fear and tears he sees reflected in them. “Please, let him go” he is begging, will do anything to save Archie’s life. “He doesn’t know who you are, so he won’t tell anyone” he adds, words bubbling from his lips in desperation. “I do, though, I know everything.”

Clifford lowers the blade, striding towards him, stopping only when he is an inch from Jug’s face. He lifts the mask, revealing a Cheshire cat smile and hungry eyes, the tip of the blade caresses Jughead's cheek, he shivers, feels fear tie a knot in his throat and coat his lungs in gasoline. "Please, just let him go."

“So much devotion” gloved fingers grasp tightly at his chin, dark eyes taking on a wicked glint “what would you do to keep the boy you love safe?”

Jughead quivers, fights back the tears that are gathering in his eyes and forces out "whatever you ask."

"Oh, what a delightful answer" he grins, wolfish and ravenous "If I asked for something as sweet as a kiss, would you comply?"

Jughead nodded, he wished he could see Archie, he had gone silent, he must be mortified at what he was seeing.

“And if I asked you to get on your knees, would you?”

He nodded again, stomach churning at the unspoken request behind the words.

“And if I put you on all fours, to have what I was denied, would you do so without fuss?”

There was no holding back the whimper that escaped past his lips, no stopping the tear from trickling down his cheek, tracing the same path as the blade, yet he still nodded. Eyes scrunching shut, fear burning through his veins, becoming a living creature inside his chest.

"Such beautiful dedication" he purred "You are lucky I am a gentleman, I shall only ask for a kiss. For now."

Jughead braced himself, body turning to stone as Clifford’s mouth met his, capturing his lips in a hungry, violent kiss. Distantly he heard Archie shouting, can’t make out the words over the roaring of the blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart. Kissing Clifford felt so wrong, it was vicious, vile, teeth bit his lip, drawing blood and a tongue forced its way into his mouth, making him gag. Strong hands took hold of him, there was copper in his mouth, trickling down his chin. Abruptly the kiss ended, he didn’t have time to register what was going to happen next, a sharp blow to his stomach had him doubling over, gasping for breath. A fist collided with his temple, knocking him to the ground, he whimpered in pain, struggling to rise only to have a booted foot slam down on his stomach.

“Such a fool” he scolded, pressing the heel of his boot into Jughead’s gut “I’m not letting either of you go. But your show of devotion was truly wonderful. I am going to enjoy taking you in front of your high school sweetheart” He looks to Archie, who is still shouting, screaming threats he can’t carry out. “If you don’t stop yelling I will cut out your tongue” the room falls silent, Clifford bends down and hauls Jughead to his feet. “I’m going to enjoy this, I was so very disappointed I never got to sample your flesh before.”

"You're sick" Jughead spits at him, getting backhanded for the effort.

“I need to sew your lips shut again I see.”

Jughead shudders, he wants to scream, to make it rise above the fear clogging his throat. He must try. Closing his eyes, surroundings fading to nothing he gathers all his strength, feels it build in his veins, grow in his lungs. Eyes fluttering open he shoves Clifford back, he stumbles, anger reddening his face as he regains balance and Jughead wastes no time, he screams. The force knocks Clifford backwards, he sails across the room and collides with the solid brick wall, dropping like a rag doll to the concrete floor.

Jughead runs towards Archie; there is no time to offer comfort or to deal with what just transpired, he uses the knife to cut through the thick rope, helping Archie to stand. There is no time for an embrace; they take off just as Clifford stirs awake. Is it over? Are they going to race up the stairs, make it to Dean's room and slip outside, free,  _alive_? Is it going to be that easy to escape death? A single scream, a quick escape and they will make it out of this alive? It's not over yet, when they left in their panicked state they forgot one crucial detail, forgot to collect the other dangerous weapon as they fled.

The bullet ricochets off the wall, knocking a painting to the floor, sending Archie and Jughead down the wrong path. It's a deadly game of cat and mouse, the house a twisting, turning maze that leaves them disoriented. The lost boys are nowhere in sight; every room looks the same in the dark, and Jughead fears they are very far from where they should be. There is no choice but to hide, clutch tightly to each other as footsteps approach, a taunting voice floating on the air with dust motes that dance in the streams of moonlight that filtered in through the cracks in the walls.

They are hiding in a crumbling den, hands clasped tight and lips pressed firmly closed to repress frightened whimpers. Clifford walks by, taking a turn, the night growing silent apart from their laboured breathing. It’s a chance, a risk they must take. Creeping from the room Jughead leads Archie down the dark hallway, he doesn’t dare use the light of his phone. He’d give anything for the lost boys to appear, for them to point him towards safety but they do not reveal themselves.

The house offers plenty of spaces to hide; the walls hold secrets, the painting that crashed to the floor earlier reveals a hidden passageway. Inside is coated in cobwebs, crawling with spiders and there isn't enough room to stand upright or walk side by side. They crawl through on their hands and knees, splinters biting into their palms, floorboards creaking under their weight and the house moans and shudders around them. Jughead can only see darkness ahead, can only hear the pounding of his heart and Archie's breathing. He senses death, feels it settle in his bones, a promise, an unavoidable event.

He’d like to say something to Archie, say ‘I love you’ say ‘I’m sorry’ but there is an almighty crash and when he whips his head around Archie is gone, nothing left but a hole in a wall and the sound of struggling coming from the other side. Jughead takes the knife from his belt and scurries through the opening, finding Clifford looming over Archie, gun pointed at his head. Jughead doesn’t think, he lurches at Clifford, sending them crashing through the railing and tumbling towards the floor below.

Everything goes dark. It feels like an eternity that he is floating in the abyss, free of pain, free of fear for the first time in months. The world slowly trickles back in, voices shouting, a painfilled cry, fragmented images of a swaying chandelier, shattered wood, a leg bent at the wrong angle, black ink glistening in the moonlight, no not ink, blood. It's the agony he feels first, every inch aching, burning, pulsating with pain that feels alive. He must rise, though his leg isn't right, something is sticking out of it, his left arm hurts, everything hurts, but he must rise. He must scream.

It takes every ounce of strength to rise, to stand on unsteady legs, with a broken, mangled body. Before him is chaos, the floor is littered with splintered wood, gleaming with blood, his vision tunnels, he sways, feels blood trickle from his nose and pool in his mouth. Clifford is pinning Archie to the ground once more, the blade sinking into Archie’s shoulder, ripping a scream from his throat. Jughead shouts, blood spraying from his mouth, Clifford whirls towards him, mask concealing the monster beneath.

Jughead opens his mouth, ready to wail, to shatter the bastard's skull with his voice only there is no chance for the scream to escape. There is a flash of silver, white-hot burning pain and blood, so much blood gushing from his throat. The pain knocks him to the ground, trembling hands reach up to apply pressure to the wound, to stem the stream of crimson, but he is growing weak, darkness closing in. He hears a scream, a loud bang, feels something wet like rain on his face, something solid thunders to the floor and he gurgles Archie's name.

“I’m here Juggie” Archie’s face hovers above his, strong, warm hands resting over his, trying desperately to stop the blood flow. “Oh God, Juggie, stay with me, please stay with me.”

The darkness is closing in, the pain floating away, eyelids growing heavy.

“Juggie, stay with me!”

He wants to; he wants to spend forever with Archie. Wants them to go to college, move to somewhere big and full of sparkling lights and bustling streets, buy a house with a yard for a dog or a tiny apartment in a historical building, get married and grow old together. He wants to spend a thousand lifetimes with Archie and a thousand more, but the darkness is coasting in and the lost boys have gathered. He really wants to stay but there is so much blood leaking from his veins and death does not care about his plans and dreams for the future. He's just another dying boy, just another soul to take.

He closes his eyes, accepting his fate, one that should have been his weeks ago, had Archie not saved him, giving them a few more precious days to cherish being together, days the other boys never had a chance to have. He is sixteen years old, just like the others, he wears jeans with holes in the knees, combat boots and thrift shop jackets, he is a loner, a little strange and likes horror movies and true crime novels.

He is sixteen when he dies in the arms of the boy he loves.

**~X~X~X~**

The house appears different, brilliant sunlight pools through the windows, the house hums with warmth, with a sense of joy. There is no dust or speck of dirt to be seen; the walls hold no holes or marks; the floor is polished and gleaming beneath Jughead's feet. Above him the chandelier is shining bright, the crystals twinkling in the warm sunlight that floods the room. He feels at peace, the house is how it once was, full of life and cheer, there is the echo of laughter, voices trickling down from upstairs. He feels like he can breathe for the first time in weeks, but that feeling only lasts a moment.

There is the taste of copper in his mouth; the sunlight vanishes behind dark storm clouds, there is blinding pain spreading through his body, the warmth is snuffed out, no sound of laughter, no sense of joy. The house crumbles around him, dust and cobwebs settle on the chandelier, the walls crack and the bannister splinters, raining down around him. Crimson pools at his feet, gushing from his neck, staining his clothes, glistening black in the moonlight. There is a frantic voice floating in the air around him, a broken, scared boy begging someone to stay, to hold on, please hold on Jug.

"Archie" he screams or tries to, the words are gurgled, blood choking him. He doesn't want to die; he wants to grow up, grow old. He doesn't want to be another trapped soul, left to wonder these walls for all eternity. He wants to live. To have blistering hot summers and bitterly cold winters, to eat burgers at Pop's with Archie and Betty, spend more time with his dad, see his mum and Jellybean again. He wants to have boring weekdays and adventurous weekends; he wants to read more books and take Archie to see the next Marvel movie. He doesn't want to die.

"Then don't stay," Dean says, leaning casually against the doorframe "be the boy who lived."

Jughead watches the other lost boys emerge, surrounding him, skin glowing, mouths free of black threads, bodies free of injuries. They look the way they did when they alive, before Clifford took them, before he defiled and disfigured them, curving them into his perfect little angels. They are free; he did this, he set them free. Alex will never get to star on Broadway; Wren will never get a chance to tell Laurel that he loved her, Adrian will never have the opportunity to become a professional photographer and travel the world. Sam won't ever have the chance to fall in love or hear another song, Caleb will never make it to Greendale, to the bright future that was at his fingertips. Dean will never get to grow old, to find a life free of violence and misery.

But he will. He can embrace the pain, the trauma that is to come, the chaos that will unfold in the wake of this violent, bloody night. He will live for them, will watch Rent and Grease for Alex, will take up photography for Adrian, will eat apple pie for Caleb on rainy days, will go the beach for Wren for he never got to see the ocean and he will love Archie with all his heart for Sam. Most importantly he'll tell his dad about Dean, tell him what really happened to him, he will make sure the world knows who the lost boys are. There is no more forgetting; their stories will be set free, Riverdale will know of the lives it lost, of the monster who stole them.

He will remember them all and make sure their names are on everyone’s lips for years to come.

"I'm sorry," he says, finding his mouth free of blood.

“Don’t be sorry” Dean smiles and it’s like seeing the sunrise “You saved us, like you said you would.”

"We owe you" Caleb steps up, embracing him in a crushing hug, not caring about the blood soaking him. "Not many people cared about me when I was alive, so to have a stranger risk everything to set me free? Well, that means everything." He pets him on the shoulder, grinning, looking so alive and at peace. "I think we would have been friends."

“We are” Jughead replied, casting his eyes to the others “I’ll never forget any of you.”

"We’ll beer forget you" Caleb promised. "Hey, think you can send Eve a letter? If you can find her, I just want her to have some closure."

“Yeah, of course” he looks to Wren and Sam “Do you want me to try and find Laurel, Wren? And your sister, Sam?”

“That would mean the world to me” Wren steps forward, pulling Jughead into a crushing hug, whispering thank you.

“Yes, I want Effy to know I’m at peace now,” Sam said, smiling sadly as he stepped forward to embrace him.

Each boy hugs him, offering their thanks before moving to gather by the door, which Dean pulls open to reveal a brilliant, blinding white light that scatters the shadows, it feels warm and ethereal. It’s time for them to go, to move on. Jug watches them vanish into the light, growing weaker as they go, pain intensifying. Dean is the last to leave, he hugs Jug gingerly, when he steps back Jug falls to the ground, gaging on blood, shuddering in pain. Dean gives him one final look, tells him to live, to be brave and bold and love that amazing boyfriend of his. Jughead promises to, though the words can’t rise around the agony, the copper in his mouth. Dean steps into the light, the door swings closed, surrounding him in darkness.

He closes his eyes, embracing the pain, embracing life.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here we are, it's been a lot of fun to write this fic and quite emotional at times, it's bittersweet to see the end. I want to say thank you to everyone who has read, left a comment and kudos for this fic; it means a lot to me to know you're enjoying my work as a lot of my heart and hard work goes into it. Thank you all once again, and I will be back after a mini break with another Jarchie fic! There is also a possibility of there being a sequel to this story if anyone would be interested in seeing what the future for the boys holds :)  
> Thank you and I hope to see you again.

Spring blossoms in Riverdale, snow melting away to reveal new life, flowers bloom and leaves return to the trees; the woods come alive with sound and colour. Crystal lake thaws and Sweetwater river runs warms. The sky is clear and pale blue, there is a slight chill in the air but it's too warm for a scarf or a heavy coat, so as Jughead walks past the two joggers going for an afternoon run, he does his best to avoid their curious eyes that linger a little too long at the fading scar on his neck. At school its impossible to ignore the glances, the whispers that follow him and Archie through the halls, to Pop’s and wherever else they go.

It's been three months since Clifford Blossom tried to kill them and the truth of who he was came out, exploding through the town like a shockwave, changing it irrevocably. Riverdale was no longer the wholesome place it used to be, it had been home to a serial killer, to a monster that had taken so many innocent lives and left the town haunted, stained. The Blossom's fell from grace, their name and legacy tainted by what Clifford had done, Thornhill manor mysteriously burnt down, and they lost everything. Penelope Blossom would not hide in shame, Cheryl still walked the halls of the school with her head held high, but the crown had been taken, given to Veronica Lodge.

Riverdale is different, the dark underbelly has been brought into the light and people are afraid, they are uncertain of their safety, and they should be. The world is not safe, Jughead had always known this, long before he became a harbinger of death he could sense the darkness in the hearts of others, see the demons flicker in their eyes. But now he can see death coming, can taste it and hear it and smell it, he will always have a chance to change his fate, to change the fate of others and somehow, they seem to know.

He is the only one to survive The Collector, twice he might add, he knew where to go, knew things no one alive could. The people around him have accepted that he was psychic, even if they didn't quite understand, they knew he was different, that he was something else now. Kids at school, their parents, strangers passing on the street looked at him now, when once they saw right through him, some even avert their gaze in fear. Jughead is a mystery to the town; he is the boy who lived, who survived such terrible events, who discovered the house of pretty, broken things and who seems a little dangerous and damaged.

Archie is the only one who knows what he is, who understands the importance of his gift and the burden it brings. Archie is also the only one who understands the anxiety and fear, who suffers through the nightmares and has scars to remind him of their frightful night. When the dust settled, the questions stopped coming, and Jughead was allowed home from the hospital after two weeks and three surgeries, he finally fell apart.

They fell apart.

He nearly died that night; his injuries had been extensive. His right leg had been broken and pierced with a piece of wood. Two operations, eight weeks in a cast, two weeks in a medical boot later and he was left with a limp and needing to use a cane for the foreseeable future. His left arm was fractured and slashed open in the fall, the healing scars overlapping the ones Clifford had left to mirror Wren's. There were cracked ribs, a concussion, bruises that lasted for weeks, severe blood loss and a vivid scar on his neck. There are more marks to add to the collection, more nightmares to plague his sleep only this time he is not alone.

Archie has a scar by his eyebrow from the the metal tyre iron he’d been knocked out with and another from where the knife sank into his shoulder, by some miracle missing anything vital. It still aches, especially on rainy days and he needed some physical therapy before being able to play his guitar again. Archie persisted, grit his teeth and worked hard on his recovery, making Jughead work hard on his own. They rise together, shaking off the darkness and supporting each through every bad day, comforting each other after every nightmare. It was a rocky climb to where they are now, they fought, slammed doors, blocked out the pain, the trauma and each other. They tried to act like everything was fine, like they didn't endure such cruel things and witness such wicked things.

Its Archie who breaks first, it's been a month, and Jughead is still living with the Andrews, but his dad is working on getting them a place, that’s if he can afford one and cover the medical bills that keep showing up in the mail with overdue stamped on them in red letters. Archie knocks at his door, Jughead looks up, hating the sight of the dark circles under his eyes and the heavy set of his shoulders. He sets aside the book he was trying to read in silent invitation. Archie sits at the end of the bed, absently stroking Luna's silky black fur, looking everywhere but at Jughead. Things are tense between them, the air thick with words that need to be spoken, fears that need to be brought into the light.

"Archie," Jughead says, getting his attention "Talk to me."

"I can't stop thinking about that night" he admits, still avoiding Jug's gaze. "I close my eyes, and all I see is you bleeding out on the floor" he shudders, eyes glistening with tears. "I have nightmares where he kills you over and over…" he pauses, Jughead waits, he knows how difficult talking about this is. "I have nightmares where he rapes you" Archie meets his eyes briefly, anger swirling with the tears "I watch him violate you, and I know it's my fault” hands ball into fist, knuckles turning white under the strain “you would have let _him_ hurt you to save me."

Jughead winces at the anger in Archie's voice, but he’d never regret making that offer. He opens his mouth, words the honest truth and promises "I would do anything to protect you, Archie."

"I know" he looks heavenward like the ceiling can cure their trauma, end their nightmares.

“Are you mad at me?” the words hurt as they rise up his throat, it hasn't hurt this much to speak since he was in the hospital recovering, the stitches in his neck pulling as he talked.

"I'm" he lets out a long, weary sigh "I'm not mad at you, Jug, I would do the same thing to protect you.” Their eyes meet, the anger is replaced with defeat, with swirling thoughts “I'm just messed up. The dreams feel so real, and when I wake up, I think for a second that it actually happened."

“But it didn’t” Jughead scooted forward, taking Archie’s hand. “What happened to us wasn’t right, but we are okay,” he kisses Archie’s hand, anxiety dulling when a small smile graces his face, and he laces their fingers together. “I’m right here, Archie and I’m not going anywhere. It’s over.”

He bowed his head, hiding the flood of tears “I hate feeling like this. I hate hearing the whispers, seeing the looks. I hate the nightmares and the anxiety, and I hate that I don’t feel bad for killing a person.”

There it is, the real reason for Archie's pain. He killed Clifford Blossom, put a bullet right between his eyes and though it was self-defence, it's not something someone gets over easily. He can only imagine that Archie must feel some aspect of guilt, even though he slayed the beast. Archie had a heart of gold, and this weighed heavily on his soul. "Arch" Jughead cradles his chin in the crook of his fingers, tilting his face up. "You don't have to feel bad for what you did; you did nothing wrong. He was going to kill us; he had already taken so many lives. You saved us."

“I know, I’m glad he’s dead” he confessed, “and that’s the problem! I should at least feel bad, right? Even a little?”

"No, Archie you don't have to feel bad" he declared, and he meant it. He was surprised to hear Archie say this but in truth, he'd rather he didn't' feel guilt or remorse. Archie didn't need to carry any more weight on his shoulders, but in true Archie fashion, he felt conflicted over not feeling these things. Jughead had known Archie for as long as he could remember and at times he still surprised him, but he could always tell what his fears were and right now Archie feared his lack of empathy made him a terrible person.

"You are a good person, Archie. You are kind and caring, and the fact you don't feel bad or guilty for killing a serial killer doesn't make you bad." He leans in, resting his forehead against Archie's "You are nothing like him, Archie, in case that's what you were thinking."

He breathes a sigh of relief, warm breath ghosting over Jug’s lips. “I hate him” he whispered, “I hate him so much.”

"It's okay" he reassured, "so do I, but you can't hold onto the hatred or the fear, it will destroy you. I know what you're going through, I have nightmares where he violates me, and where he violates you. I see you die, and I dream of my dad locking me up, of being trapped in that house forever, but they are just bad dreams, Archie. We didn't die in there, we are alive, and we're going to get better, I promise you that." He captured Archie's lips in a tender kiss, "I'm right here, I'm alive, we're alive." He repeats so the words can settle under Archie's skin, _under their skin_ , so they can wrap around them like a warm blanket and ease some of the pain.

It takes bad days, Godawful days and not so bad days before they make it to okay, to somewhat better. They recover with the town, bruises fading, bones mending and scars fading. They go to therapy, talk about what happened to them to a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. Jughead spends time with his dad, who looks at him a little differently now, who stares a bit too long and hugs a little too tight. He tells FP everything, spends hours talking about the lost boys, not about how they died but who they were, who they would have become. His dad listens, still finds it surreal that his son can communicate with the dead, but he believes.

FP is the reason he is alive. He believed enough in the end to go speak with Mustang again, who earlier in the day ‘proved' he had nothing to do with Jason Blossom's murder. Only it turns out Clifford somehow knew they'd been to the cabin and when his dad arrived to question Mustang the jacket was gone, and the doubt crept back in. It wasn't until after he'd fled from the hospital and Archie had gone missing that FP began to accept that something bigger was afoot. He and Fred Andrews drove to Mustang's cabin, finding him amid packing, Jug isn't sure what transpired next, but he can imagine it wasn't pretty, as Mustang revealed the part he played.

He kidnapped Jason Blossom on the fourth of July and held him in his basement until a week later Clifford Blossom killed him. He also kidnapped Archie and delivered him to the house for a handsome sum. Mustang was facing a long time in jail, and if he ever showed his face in Riverdale again, FP would kill him. When Jug was recovering in hospital and no longer doped up on pain medication he learnt of how Fred and his father sped into the night to save them; the location forced violently from Mustang's lips. They found the path to the house, only visible because Jughead left the motorcycle parked near it. They didn't walk through the bitterly cold woods, Fred drove his truck straight through the low hanging branches, braving the dangerous snow-covered road that lead to the manor.

They arrived in time, followed by flashing blue and red lights, the night erupted into chaos, and the storm has only begun to settle. Today he and Archie are making the long trek through the forest to a secluded part of Sweetwater River. The sun sinks low in the sky, casting the woods in a warm orange glow, the sky overhead turning a multi-coloured hue of pink, blue and purple. The nights are still pleasantly cold, the wind chilly as it whispers through the trees, rifles fingers through their hair.

They come to a stop at the clearing by the edge of the river, the water is calm here, glistening and golden in the afternoon light. It feels like centuries since they were last here, stumbling towards the water's edge, shedding clothes and kissing hungrily. It was a summer full of firsts, of learning what it felt like to be more than friends, exploring each other's bodies and discovering just how good things could feel. The summer was a hazy rose-tinted memory, cherished and never forgotten, but the darkness that came after destroyed those carefree boys. 

Jughead didn't doubt they'd find happiness like that again; they still had each other, their love hadn't waned, only grew stronger, it was just different. It came to life on the hot days and in the late hours of rainy nights, but it was the dark, winter days that showed them how deep their love went. As they stop at the edge of the stream, watching the water ripple in the breeze, Jughead takes Archie's hand, smiling, knowing in his heart and soul that they are bound together by fate and they can survive this. They will get to be carefree again; they will sneak out to make out under the indigo night sky speckled with glittery stars, in time they will shed their clothes and relearn the feel of each other's skin.

It won't be tonight or maybe not even tomorrow, but that day does exist, it's just out of reach but not out of sight. Jughead pushes these thoughts aside; he has come here to honour the lost boys, to say goodbye. The lost boys are no longer forgotten, no longer boys that vanished into the night. They have been found. Caleb, Wren and Sam's loved ones had closure, at last, they had bodies to bury and a grave to visit. Alex and Adrian had no one to claim them, to mourn them, they were buried in the cemetery, given bland headstones but Jughead would not allow them to be forgotten. He wouldn't let any of them be forgotten. Especially Dean, who the Serpents buried with their own, his headstone marked with the two-headed snake and a sweet quote about riding in the stars forever.

The town laid to rest six boys, their names were in the papers and on everyone's lips, but that wasn't the only thing people were talking about. The reveal of Jason Blossom's murder took centre stage, the golden, rich boy once more overshadowing the misfits. The scandal of one of Riverdale's most exceptional family members being a serial killer was vastly more interesting than his victims, unless that victim was Jason. Ignored in life and ignored in death.

Jughead had been angry, hurt that people could show such little empathy for those who were just a little different, a little rough around the edges. The lost boys didn’t deserve to be forgotten, to be another tragedy or a ghost story friends tell each other late at night. It’s why he was going to write about them, about Clifford and Jason and all the dark secrets this town had buried for years. Riverdale could attempt to move on, to conceal this with football and preppy cheerleaders but Jughead wasn’t going to allow anyone to forget the lives that were lost.

That were taken.

Breathing out the anger he lets go of Archie's hand, reaching into his bag to retrieve the paper lanterns. This is how he will say goodbye to the lost boys, who he misses, who were in some way his friends. He is grateful they are at peace, that his mind is free of voices and memories that are not his own, but at times he longs for them, for they understood his pain, for they were connected so deeply and now they are gone and it feels like he's lost a limb. He wonders where they are now, if there is a world built of clouds for them to spend eternity in or if they will be reborn, given a chance to live, to find love, hope and wonder.

“Are you ready, Jug?”

He looks away from the horizon, turning his gaze towards Archie, who even after all the pain and fear still has light shimmering in his eyes, bright and hopeful and full of love. “Yeah” he unfolds the lantern, taking the lighter from his pocket so he can light the candle Archie hands to him. “Archie, thank you, for helping me with this.”

Archie nods, expression sombre and Jughead aches his smile. "I know I didn't know them, not really, but I feel like I did, and they didn't get the farewell they deserved. This is for them, and this is for us.” There it is, a flicker of that smile that is bright and warm as summer days, but it’s gone just as fast. “People talked about us, about you but no one really did anything." He pauses, forehead wrinkling in thought "Betty and Veronica were there for us and our dads, but they didn't go through what we went through." He shakes his head, casting his eyes to the calm waters. "I'm sorry, I'm still trying to make sense of how I feel."

"Hey" he nudged him, offering him a gentle smile "I know where you're coming from. We went through hell; we're still going through hell" he glances down at his leg, which throbs even now, eyes moving to the cane which has been decorated with silly stickers. Time heals all wounds they say, but they never say how much time it will take, how the days spent healing are painful, are filled with anxiety and misery, but there will be an end. He will be able to walk without the use of his cane, and this pain inside his chest will ease. Time won't heal them; they will put in the work, struggle and break, but in the end, they will fix themselves because no one else can. "If you're going through hell-"

“-Keep going” Archie finished, the smile returning, radiant and golden.

“Keeping going” Jughead echoes, letting go of the lantern, watching it float up into the sky.

There is a lantern for every lost boy, he sets them free into the evening sky, sitting down in Archie's embrace as they watch them fade from sight and the stars twinkle to life. Wren, Caleb, Alex, Sam, Adrian and Dean will never be forgotten, not by him. He will cherish all his tomorrows for them, grow up, grow old, love and live. Most importantly he will tell their stories, and when he has recovered, when the scars have faded, and the fear no longer ties around his neck like a noose he will help others just like them.

He is different now; he isn't the same person who once stood in this very spot, ignorant to the beautiful sunset and calm stream as he’d been distracted by Archie’s lips and warm flesh. He senses death coming, sees through the veil and finds lost souls trapped there. He is a harbinger of death, and his destiny is far greater than he ever imagined. But tonight, under the glistening stars, in the arms of the boy he loves, he is just Jughead Jones, sixteen-years-old and still here.

**Two months later**

_Ding, ding._

Jughead stirs awake, head heavy, body flooding with a sense of dread, hands sticky with blood that is not there.

_Ding, ding._

The chiming intensifies, making him shudder, grit his teeth against the rising volume, the sound becoming clear, familiar.

_Ding, ding._

Images are flickering in his mind, blood and chaos and shouting. Nothing makes sense; things are happening out of order, vision fragmented, punctured by darkness, a chiming bell, a bang.

_Ding, ding._

Death has returned to Riverdale, it walks through the door of Pop’s, holding a gun, face covered in darkness, eyes so very green staring out from the abyss.

_Ding, ding._

Bang!

He opens his mouth and screams.


End file.
